


Rack and Ruin

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 121,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Michael said to Billy was: we’ll come back to get you. It was a promise he’d intended to keep, never doubted on keeping. But in the end it was a promise he’d broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Remnant

**Author's Note:**

> Authors: faye_dartmouth and lena7142  
> Disclaimer: We claim no ownership of the characters or concept of the show CHAOS.  
> Rating: R for violence, strong themes, torture.  
> Warnings: This fic is pretty grim. Dark, even. And maybe a little gruesome in places. You may, er, want a tissue for some parts. Sorry.
> 
> A/N: This fic is a collaboration between Faye and Lena, two h/c fans who elected to come together and combine our twisted minds to realize new heights of darkness to inflict on these poor characters. That said, we have endeavored to treat the subject matter and its psychological implications with respect. We will do our best to provide warnings for any triggery chapters. The nation of Morovia is purely fictional.
> 
> We would both like to thank sockie1000 for being a wonderful beta and slogging through this rather lengthy fic.

“All human wisdom is contained in these two words--"Wait and Hope.”  
\- Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

\- o -

__

_Hell is empty, and all the devils are here._

_Only the devils were gone - for now. Or were they hiding? No, no they were gone. All gone. No one was coming back. No one was coming for him. Why would they? He was no one. He was dying. He was nothing. Ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bones left to rot in the corner of some dark dungeon, forgotten... It was dark. Had he gone blind? Had they taken his sight as well as everything else? No, no he had his eyes, but they’d taken the rest... taken everything. He had nothing left._

_Nothing left._

_Maybe he was already dead. Had he died and failed to notice? Or maybe he’d died long since; this was hell, it had to be. No way for it to get any worse..._

_It always got worse._

_Until it stopped._

_All he wanted now was for it to stop..._

_But the pain that wracked him now was old and dull. They’d been abandoned. Thank God. If there was a God. No, couldn’t be a God. Just the devils. Just him, and hell. Alone in the dark, forgotten to finally die. Finally be nothing._

_He curled up on his side, squeezed his eyes closed against the darkness, and waited for his heart to stop._

_For nothing._

__


	2. I. Retrieval

__

_Sometimes, missions went well._

_Of course, most of the time, the ODS managed to get everything to work out in the end. But typically it involved a lot more improvisation and reckless antics. Of course, they’d had to go off-book once or twice for this mission; nothing ever went off perfectly. But this had come fairly close, Billy reflected, as he sipped the cocktail in his hand and leaned back, watching the slow and languid river._

_The intel they’d been dispatched on had come from a long-time asset in Morovia – a small, unstable country that had broken away from one of the former Soviet states. Its geographical positioning coupled with its corrupt government had made it a popular point for arms smuggling between central Europe and the former USSR. Word of Russian missiles being traded to a group of Basque extremists had come to the Agency, and the ODS had been sent in to intercept the trade. They’d had to be a bit creative, of course, but had managed to neutralize the buyers and apprehend the weapons, which were en route to a secure location for dismantling at that very moment._

_There had very nearly been a bit of a spat with the local law enforcement, of course, and the arms dealers had evaded them, but the mission had been accomplished. All that remained was for Michael to arrange for the Basque revolutionaries they’d picked up to be transported over the border, where Interpol could pick them up, for Casey to confirm their extraction plan to head back to the states, for Rick to pack everything up and clear out all traces that the ODS had ever been in Morovia –_

_– And for Billy to pay off the asset._

_“Why can’t I be the one to pay Illyich?” Rick had grumbled as he folded a shirt meticulously into his suitcase._

_“Because,” Casey remarked, tossing a dirty undershirt at Martinez as he headed for the door, burner phone in hand. “You drew the short straw. Now remember not to mix my dirty socks with my clean ones.”_

_“Sorry, lad,” Billy had added with a smile. “Better luck next time!”_

_“You mean next time, you guys won’t have rigged it?” Rick pointed out a bit bitterly._

_At that, Billy had grinned. “It would be lucky indeed if we didn’t!”_

_And then he’d taken leave of the grimy little hotel where they’d based their operation, heading down to the cafe by the river that had been their pre-arranged meeting point._

_Morovia was not necessarily a beautiful country – there were far more scenic parts of Eastern Europe, Billy noted. Serbia and Croatia had more beautiful landscapes, and the architecture of Budapest and Kiev put the Morovian capital of Prensk to shame. But it did have a certain amount of character, if you turned a blind eye to the urban decay and unfortunate totalitarianism. From where he sat at the outdoor table, the view of the cobbled street and the old bridge crossing the lazy river was actually nice. The presence of a cool drink in his hand added the general pleasantness of the moment._

_Not a bad way to end a mission at all._

_“No one followed you?”_

_Billy sipped his drink. “Rest easy, mate. I’m a professional.” He didn’t turn around. He recognized Illyich by the combination of his voice and the stink of the hand-rolled cigarettes the man was so attached to._

_From the seat behind him, Illyich grunted. Billy heard him shift nervously. Of course, Leonid Illyich was a nervous man; it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary. “The intel was good?”_

_“Aye, it was good. Payment is in full. And we are, once again, eternally grateful to you for your services and hope we can continue this mutually profitable relationship,” Billy replied easily, taking a final sip of his drink and enjoying the late summer breeze as it wafted over the river. “The briefcase is under the table. It’s all there.” He stood, dropped a bit of currency on to the table to settle his bill, then straightened his jacket and turned around._

_Illyich made a point not to face him as he walked by to leave, but for a brief second, the asset met his gaze. Billy winked._

_And then it was over. Mission accomplished. He’d head back to the hotel, meet with Rick and Casey and Michael, and they’d head back to the States where they’d hopefully have a chance to catch a wee bit of R &R (possibly involving a good book and a nicely aged scotch) before heading out on another brave and moderately reckless endeavor–_

_Billy stopped. He’d cut through one of Prensk’s many narrow, cobblestone alleys as a shortcut when the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. Spies – the good ones – had a kind of sixth sense when it came to knowing they were followed. It was how they stayed alive._

_And Billy wasn’t alone in the alley._

_Taking a breath, he kept walking, taking immediate stock of his surroundings. Someone was behind him. And as he walked by an overturned cart he saw, in the edge of his vision, a shape dislodge itself from a doorway. There were at least two, maybe more. His pace quickened slightly. The footsteps behind him quickened in turn. Bollocks._

_He took a left turn. Then a right, zigzagging within the labyrinth of old and narrow streets in hopes of shaking off his tail. Left, right –_

_– dead end._

_“Bugger,” Billy mumbled as he came face to face with a blank and unforgiving wall. He turned just as his pursuer caught up only for everything to explode into fragments of pain and darkness as something connected with his temple._

_Billy crumpled to the ground._

_Sometimes missions went well._

_But this, he reflected as consciousness ebbed away into nothingness, the world closing in around him, was not one of those times.  
_  
\-----

The last thing Michael said to Billy was: we’ll come back to get you and go to the airport together.

It was a simple promise, one he hadn’t thought much about. After all, it was really a matter of logistics. Billy would be in the city and therefore the last one they’d pick up on their way out of town. They just had to tie a few loose ends together but the mission had already been essentially over.

It was a promise he’d intended to keep, never doubted on keeping.

It was a promise he’d broken.

A promise he wanted to rectify -- needed to rectify.

A promise that might never be fixed.

Because Michael had gone to pick up Billy, but Billy hadn’t been there. Billy hadn’t been anywhere.

Because Billy was gone.

-o-

It had been a mission to Morovia. The intel had come from a longstanding asset. Michael had relied on Leonid Illyich more than once, and even though the man was too wily to be trusted, he valued the dollar above all else. That wasn’t Michael’s favorite means of acquiring intel, but Michael could be pragmatic when he had to be.

Michael wasn’t a paranoid bastard without reason, after all.

The objective had been ambitious, even for the ODS. Morovia was just a few notches above civil war, which made the country a prime route for all major illegal trades. This time, they had intel on an arms deal, including several high grade missiles on their way to a burgeoning terror cell in Europe. The work had been more dangerous than Michael preferred, but in the end, they’d managed to apprehend and dismantle the missiles before they’d been sold and had gotten positive IDs on most of the ranking members the terrorist group, effectively stopping the supply line of a major Russian arms dealer while simultaneously unearthing the heart of the terror group.

All in all, it was a win -- and a big one. Everything had gone perfectly.

That should have been Michael’s first clue.

-o-

Two months.

That was how long it had been. Michael kept the time, marking the days off on his calendar. He still drove by Billy’s motel room on the way to work, still penciled Billy’s name into the mission reports he made to appease Higgins.

But the fact was indisputable: Billy had been gone two months.

Two months and they were no closer to finding him now than they were when he’d first disappeared.

At the time, they’d found Billy’s phone and wallet, complete with fake IDs and credit cards, abandoned in a nearby alley. There had been skid marks and blood and nothing.

They’d stayed an extra week and found no trace.

At home, Higgins said the mission was over; it was time to come home.

Michael kept his team in place another two weeks anyway, but after they’d shaken down every asset and threatened a few locals, the government had deteriorated further and Michael was going to lose the rest of his team if he wasn’t careful.

Casey and Rick hadn’t wanted to go -- almost refused, in fact -- but all of them had to face the harsh reality that they had no other leads. They weren’t doing Billy any good poking around the same sources. They needed to regroup. They had to leave.

So they’d left, his promise to Billy caught in his throat as the plane lifted off the ground into the air.

He’d left without Billy.

He promised himself he’d be back. He promised himself he’d find Billy. He promised Rick and Casey that it wasn’t over.

But days passed. Weeks passed. Michael’s promises grew fainter, along with his hope. Back at the CIA, now they had access to as many resources as they could ever want, but none of them helped. Billy was just _gone._

They were out of leads and Higgins had new missions and it had been two months. Michael’s promises hung in the air, unresolved, unanswered.

Before they touched down in Virginia, Michael had made a new promise, a better promise. A promise to Rick, to Casey, to himself. To Billy. Even now, after two months, Michael made that promise to Billy’s empty desk every day.  
 _  
We’ll come back for you.  
_  
-o-

Officially, there was no investigation. Higgins didn’t authorize any reconnaissance and none of the hours Michael spent scouring his sources were actually for any official agency business. Sometimes Fay fielded calls about a missing operative in the former Soviet Bloc, but the party line was always the same: no comment.

Because Billy Collins had been missing for two months but Billy Collins didn’t work for the CIA. Billy Collins was a Scottish expat with no family and no friends. He lived in a motel and somehow had a green card. He did some consulting work, but he was no one important. There was no one to even report him missing.

In the halls of the agency, the people Billy joked with at lunch and flirted with on coffee breaks whispered his name. They pitched theories and shared conspiracies just out of Michael’s earshot. The quiet hum was irrefutable, though, buzzing in everyone’s ears: disavowed.

The agency didn’t even have the decency to say he’d been eaten by wolves, just that they had no idea who he was or why they should care. National security and international relations and all. It wasn’t personal.

Still, Higgins pulled the operatives out of the region. Warned assets to go underground. Cut ties, just to be safe.

Michael was too busy searching to be indignant. He was too intent on finding Billy to worry about anything else. The agency could disavow Billy, but he never would. Because the agency hadn’t made Billy any promises. Michael had.

-o-

 

The problem with promises was that Michael was inherently a liar.

He lied to his friends and he lied to his enemies. He’d lied to his wife and made a habit of lying to his employer. He lied about missions and he lied about personal things. Mostly, he just lied because the truth was often too tenuous.

He was also a scoundrel. He didn’t just lie, he broke promises. He played with people’s trust, betrayed them when he saw fit. True, he did it with so-called good intentions, but somehow that didn’t make him less of a bastard.

But he wouldn’t lie about this.

Even if he were so inclined, Casey and Rick would never let him.

Because this was Billy.

If Michael was handling Billy’s disappearance poorly, Casey and Rick weren’t actually handling it at all.

Michael had made promises; Michael had broken promises. This was one he’d keep.

-o-

In some ways, nothing changed.

Casey still came to work and sat at his computer, checking news sites and email with undue fuss. Rick bustled in full of energy and never hesitated to start in on things, attacking each new project with vigor. Michael managed them, reading until his eyes were strained in the thick rimmed glasses.

They all stole glances at Billy’s desk when they thought no one was looking.

It was the only motivation they needed. For them, it was always a question of when.

“When Billy gets back, he’s going to be pissed if we let his newspaper subscription lapse,” Rick said.

Michael thought of that, last week, and paid for it along with rent to the manager at Billy’s motel room.

“When Billy gets back, he’s going to have far too much catching up to do in the Langley rumor mill,” Casey said.

Michael knew that, too, jotted a list down on his day planner of the major happenings so they could joke about each one.

“When Billy gets back, he’ll like the new girl in tech support.”

“When Billy gets back, he’ll be glad to know he missed the most recent in-service training day.”

“When Billy gets back.”

-o-

There was no intel left. With operatives pulled from the region, they no longer had a network to tap and the assets that were confirmed alive seemed to be avoiding the ODS’ inquiries. The rest were just gone. Illyich was the only one still talking to them, and he said that things had gotten quiet around there, that people were disappearing. He said it was the Narodny Dzida, a small, secretive paramilitary group in the country.

“It’s not because he broke,” Rick said.

“Collins likes to talk about a lot of things but he wouldn’t talk about that,” Casey assured them.

And Michael added, “He’ll tell us the stories, I’m sure. Heroics and defiance in the face of death. It’d make a nice poem, don’t you think”

Rick grinned. “The best,” he said. “Just like old times.”

-o-

The picture was found after nearly two months, passed to them via MI6, who’d piggybacked off a Russian satellite. Billy’s facial features had hit in their database and with their tentative ID, they’d contacted the CIA.

Billy was alive.

Missing, disheveled, tortured, but alive.  
 _  
Billy.  
_  
-o-

The image was verified but it didn’t change the official agency standing. They still had no comment, but that didn’t stop Michael from ramping up his efforts. Casey identified the men who were with Billy -- the guards seemed to be a part of the Narodny Dzida, which confirmed what Illyich had told them.

They had some intel on the group from previous missions. Though small, the group had significant firepower and was noted for being ruthless in its tactics. More than that, President Boregrev often employed the soldiers as his personal attack dogs. Although the country was rife with crime, people feared the Narodny Dzida more than the rest.

Finding the group wouldn’t be easy, largely because of their protection from Boregrev. The man had been in power for years, and he was a difficult figure to contend with. He was ‘elected’ but democracy was a farce and extreme force was often applied to keep up the facade. The UN was concerned about a mounting number of civil rights violations in the country, most of which were attributed directly to the Narodny Dzida.

Rick was able to piece together intelligence on the other captives in the photo. One was a Russian, who had gone missing nearly three weeks after Billy. The other -- a Polish woman known for her humanitarian work in the region -- had vanished from her hotel room no more than two weeks ago.

This placed the image as recent, which explained Billy’s condition. It was clear that Billy had been tortured, although the Agency doctors had been fighting amongst themselves about just what he’d endured so far. He was still upright but hunched over, and his hands were curled inward, evidence of untreated damage. His clothing were rags, showing Billy’s shrunken frame. Malnutrition was a given, but the doctors thought it was good he was still walking on his own.

The psychologists had been less optimistic. Billy still looked like he had some awareness, but there was a notably vacancy in his eyes, plainly visible even with the grainy image. They were careful to warn them that two months of torture was almost impossible to endure.

“You don’t know Billy,” Rick had told them.

“He does have a certain inalienable way about him,” Casey added. “He’ll surprise you.”

“Besides,” Michael said, his confidence growing with newfound certainty. “Getting him home is the important part. You can fix him and psychoanalyze him to your heart’s content -- once we bring him back.”

-o-

Michael kept a copy of the satellite image on him at all times. It was grainy, black and white and hard to discern the shadows for shapes. He’d memorized it by now, the unruly hair, gnarled in clumps on his head. His mouth hung just a little slack, and the absence of teeth had been a detail he’d missed at first but stood out to him now. The nose was crooked, splotchy burns on the exposed patches of skin. His shoes were gone, bare feet knobby and covered in sores.

In many ways, it hardly looked like Billy. The vibrancy and the buoyancy was gone, replaced by slumped shoulders and dull eyes. But it was still Billy. Michael would always recognize him, just as readily as he would always bring him home.

He let his fingers brush against the picture when he was at work, fiddled with the edges in his pocket during meetings. He laid out on his bedside table before he went to bed so he wouldn’t forget.

As if he could forget.

-o-

Most missions in the CIA were years in the making. There was intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, the development of assets. Usually cases cumulated from multiple sources, often spanning different teams, sometimes different agencies, even different countries. Spywork was just that -- work. And anyone who believed otherwise had never been a spy or wasn’t a spy very long.

Most mission took years and required a file cabinet’s worth of intelligence.

Michael had three months and one photograph.

Three months since Billy had gone missing and one meager satellite image that suggested that he might be still alive.

It wasn’t much, but for Michael, it was everything. Under normal circumstances, Michael would balk at the idea of putting together a mission on so little. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

This was Billy.

And three months was already too long.

-o-

“We just need to go,” Rick said emphatically, his desperation plain on his face, in his voice. He had never been much of a liar, not around them.

“For once, I agree with the kid,” Casey said. “We go in, kill everyone, drag Billy out and worry about the rest later.”

“He’s been there too long,” Rick rejoined. “It’s _Billy_.”

The tension had gnawed away at Michael’s stomach. He’d considered these arguments for days now, weighing the pros and cons. He took a measured breath. “Which is why we need a plan.”

“Get Billy out,” Casey said with a shrug. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

“What about the paramilitary forces?” Michael asked, not trying to be cruel but it had to be said. “What about their fire power? What about their tactics? If they suspect a raid, what’s going to keep them from executing all the prisoners, no questions asked? What if we charge in there and get Billy killed after he’s spent so much time holding on?”

Rick looked almost ready to cry; Casey looked like he wanted to kill someone.

Michael took another breath, decisive. “We do this right,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’ll bring him home.”

-o-

Despite Michael’s bold words, the mission plan really wasn’t much of a plan. Not for a lack of effort, of course; Michael was thorough even when he had nothing to work with. But no matter how many times Michael checked and double checked, the mission was nothing more than a bunch of last minute ideas scraped together and thrown on paper in the semblance of an official request. Really, it was nothing more than three friends determined to get their teammate back, no matter the cost.

To three friends, this made sense.

To the director of Clandestine Services, it made less sense.

Behind his desk, Higgins looked over the report. His posture was stiff, his movements slow as he read. When he put the paper down, he looked up, eyes resting on Michael with a calm reserve as he took a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t risk a team in that area at this time.”

Michael had been expecting this answer, although he hadn’t been looking forward to it. On his right, Casey hardened, going so straight, Michael knew that the slightest provocation would make him snap. On his left, Rick audibly snorted, mouth hanging open comically.

Cautious, Michael put his hand out to silence them both. He wet his lips and kept his gaze steady on Higgins. “I know you don’t think much of the ODS, but Billy’s a good operative,” Michael said. “He deserves better than to rot away in some prison, probably being tortured while we speak.”

Higgins took another measured breath. “I am aware of the likely conditions of Operative Collins’ captivity,” he said evenly. “Assuming, of course, he is even alive. This plan, however, is foolhardy, poorly thought out and almost impossible to execute. If I sent you in there with these pretenses, your chances of coming back alive would be slim and I would have no means of sending in any other reinforcements. If you were caught, I would have to disavow you.”

“You mean like you disavowed Billy,” Casey seethed.

Michael tensed, ready to stop the confrontation, but Higgins just glanced at Casey. There was no malice in his expression. Instead, he lifted the paper and offered it back to Michael. “I cannot authorize an official rescue operation at this time, Operative Dorset.”

Michael willed himself to keep it together, to not give into the growing anger and frustration and rage. Three months had passed. Three months with Billy captured and tortured and maybe worse. Three months and Michael didn’t know if he could wait another day.

Higgins still held out the paper, eyes settled on Michael. “But if a team were to go in against my knowledge and recommendation, I suppose there’d be nothing I could do about it,” he continued.

Michael felt the tension uncoil and the relief made him smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, accepting the paper back.

Higgins held up a hand. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just bring Operative Collins home in one piece.” He hesitated, looking at Casey and Rick. “That goes for all of you.”

-o-

Less than a week later, they got their window of opportunity.

Boregrev, the half-mad dictator who single handedly kept the mess that was Morovia intact, surprised the world by not dying of an assassination or by being executed in the aftermath of a nationwide rebellion: instead he died of a sudden stroke in the middle of the night. By morning, the entire nation was halfway to civil war with uprisings taking place in the streets and the disparate ethnic and social factions battling for control.

It was complete and utter chaos.

And chaos made for very good cover.

By noon, Michael, Casey and Rick were on a flight to Kiev. By early evening, they were on a train, and by sundown they were over the Morovian border.

Michael watched Rick flinch as the sound of gunfire erupted some distance away as they approached the capital in the back of a borrowed truck. “You ok, Martinez?”

Rick chewed his lip. “There are six distinct languages spoken in Morovia. Of those, there are at least five different sub-dialects. The whole country is barely the size of Belgium. The only thing holding it together was the fact that all these different people were scared of Boregrev. With him gone –”

“–with him gone, everyone has much bigger problems to deal with than looking out for American spies,” Casey concluded, checking the clip in his gun. “We can worry about the long-term political ramifications later, Martinez. Right now we’re here to find Billy.”

Casey’s dry certainty was oddly reassuring and Michael couldn’t help but smile faintly. But as they approached the city and saw the midnight sky glow red from where the fires had broken out, he worried that they might be searching for a needle in a flaming haystack.

-o-

They found a lead on where Billy was.

It was an old building on the outskirts of the city, once apparently a factory which had been converted into a bunker some time during the second world war. Since then it had changed hands many times and had spent many years over the decades utterly deserted. According to the intel Fay had given them over the satellite phone, it was also reportedly one of the Narodny Dzida’s more recent bases of operations.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been operating out of here for a while,” Rick mumbled as they approached.

It looked abandoned, but Michael knew better than to trust appearances.

They ran surveillance. They developed and infiltration strategy. They watched to see if anyone went in or out (no one did). And then finally, they went in.

The first floor was clear. And the second. There were signs that the building had been occupied – there was food in the kitchen still, and some scattered belongings in what looked like a break room – but they cleared the entire building without finding a soul.

Michael swore.

Casey scowled. “They must have cleared out after Boregrev bit it. Someone was here recently.”

“Yeah, but they’re not here anymore,” Michael replied, resisting the temptation to punch a wall. Because this had been their window. This had been their one lead, apart from an old and grainy photo that was folded up in Michael’s inside jacket pocket.

And they’d come up empty.

“Guys?” Rick peered in, eyes wide and face pale. “Guys, I just found a basement... I think you need to come see this.”

-o-

There was a basement. As it turned out, this subterranean set of halls and rooms had been the real satellite base of the Narodny Dzida – not the old and decrepit bunker they’d seen on the surface. With each room they cleared it became clear to Michael that whatever intelligence the CIA had on the paramilitary group, it wasn’t enough. One door led to a arsenal with row upon row of empty weapons racks. Another to what looked like a medical facility, though it lacked the antiseptic cleanliness Michael would have associated with a surgical suite. Then came the door to a small room empty except for a set of manacles hanging from the ceiling and a drain in the floor, surrounded by what looked like rust stains.

Only Michael knew better.

And there was one more door at the end of the hall.

“We’ve got a sub-basement,” Casey announced after he wrestled the bolt free and shoved the door open with an ominous groan. A thin and dark set of concrete stairs led into the further gloom. And wafting up from the darkness was a smell that set Michael’s nerves on edge. In moments alternatingly musky and acrid, it was a familiar stench: the sharp stink of sweat mixed with the metallic one of blood and earthier odors of human waste, and just beneath it hovered the putridly sweet smell of decay.

It smelled of people. And death.

Michael forced down the rising sense of dread, refusing to give it the chance to assert itself in any articulate form in his mind. Because they couldn’t have come this far to be too late. It just wasn’t an acceptable option.

Martinez cracked open a light stick from his pack and they ventured down the steps, the smell of neglected humanity growing as they climbed down into the cool damp dark. Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, the ODS emerged into a hallway lined with doors. For a moment, Michael wanted to assume that they were for storage – doors positioned that close together could only allow for spaces large enough to be closets – but his experience and his senses all told him otherwise. This was a dungeon. And they’d found the cells.

“Martinez–” he began to give an order but before the words were out of his mouth, Rick had out his lockpicking set and was going to work on the nearest door. In other circumstances, Michael might have felt a small swell of pride aimed toward the younger operative; but right now, all he could feel was desperate apprehension, even as he began to jimmy the lock of the next door.

The first cell they opened contained a dead body. The man could only have been dead for a day or so, but from the shape he was in, it had taken him a while to die. The second cell was empty. The third contained a woman; Michael recognized her as the Polish national from the satellite photograph, though she was thinner and some of her hair appeared to have fallen out. She curled up in the corner of her cell, staring blankly past him, but when he entered to try to help her out, she screamed. He stepped back, startled, and she continued to shriek for several seconds before collapsing back into the corner, gasping and trembling. Michael stepped back into the hallway, where Rick and Casey stared at him. “Keep looking,” Michael muttered, shaken, but still determined to keep searching.

When they got the next cell open, Rick threw up. The source of the stink of decay had been identified, at least; whoever the poor bastard in that cell had been, he’d been dead a long time.

“You don’t think...” Rick began shakily, wiping vomit from his mouth with his sleeve.

It would be nearly impossible to identify the corpse at this level of decay. Michael knew what Martinez was alluding to, but he shook his head defiantly. “No. Too short.”

Rick looked pale, but after a second he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He swallowed grimly, straightening up.

“I found him.”

They both turned. Casey was standing in the doorway of one of the cells, staring in.

Rick immediately broke into a run, racing over to the cell and pushing past Casey. But Michael found himself hanging back a pace, his hope matched by his sudden sense of dread. Because Casey was just standing there, face utterly blank.

And when Michael got to the door and looked in, he knew why. “Jesus Christ...”

They had found Billy. Or what was left of him.

For a second, Michael hardly recognized him. The nice suit he’d been wearing when he’d left to meet their asset was gone. All that remained were rags that left his emaciated figure mostly naked. He’d lost a frightening amount of weight in those months, and even the matted growth of filthy beard couldn’t conceal the hollowness of his cheeks or the way his pale and colorless skin was pulled taut and waxy over the bones, his eyes sunken in, giving him the look of a skeleton. One of his shoulders was bruised and clearly out of its socket, and his hands were twisted and gnarled, dried blood caking where his fingernails ought to have been. It was hard to determine the extent of the injuries under the filth and flaking blood, but Michael didn’t need an itemized list.

Bruised. Burned. Bloodied. Broken.

They were too late. Three months was a long time. Too long. He’d made a promise, and he’d failed...

Rick had immediately crouched down at Billy’s side upon entering, and at this point he finally looked up, eyes wide. “He has a pulse.”

Casey blinked, the first reaction Michael had seen from him since he’d announced his discovery. “What?”

“It’s weak but it’s there! He’s still alive!”

In that moment, Michael felt his entire body sag in relief. But there was no time to savor it; Billy was alive, but he was hurt and they needed to get him out.

Needed to get him home.

“Casey, get upstairs and see if you can make contact on the sat-phone to get us a medevac chopper or some kind of medical extraction. Threaten whoever you have to. Martinez, I need you to go check the other cells, see if there are other survivors.”

Casey nodded and bolted for the stairs. Rick looked torn at the prospect of leaving Billy’s side, but when Michael crouched down and took over cradling Billy’s broken form, the younger operative pursed his lips and nodded, following the order given to him.

Billy’s skin was cold and clammy, his body eerily light in Michael’s arms. The horror he felt at the condition of his operative – his friend – was matched only by the relief he felt at having finally tracked down and retrieved the ODS’ fourth man. Though Billy was still and lifeless, the weak and erratic pulse in his throat remained, and as long as Billy was alive, everything was going to be ok. Had to be ok. Because it was _Billy._

“I told you we’d come back for you,” Michael murmured.

He’d promised.


	3. II. Relief

_  
The ice cold water hit Billy and he awoke, gasping and sputtering. He shook his head, sending droplets scattering as he blinked furiously to clear his vision, shivering slightly as frigid rivulets ran down his chest, seeping into his clothes. He instinctively reached to wipe at his face, but found that his arms were both restrained._

_Which was rarely a good sign._

_Someone yelled something at him in what sounded a lot like Russian._

_Never a good sign._

_His head hurt and his vision was still a bit swimmy, but his sudden and impromptu bath had at least revived him enough that he was able to take stock of his surroundings: small room, single overhead light, tied to a metal chair (with actual rope in lieu of duct tape – how charmingly old fashioned!), and in front of him, two men in what looked like vaguely militaristic uniforms, one of them holding a now-empty bucket._

_It looked like a Hollywood producer’s idea of an interrogation scene._

_And then it all came flooding back: the mission to Morovia. Meeting with Illyich. Trying to lose his tail in the alley on his way back to the rendezvous with his team – and being captured._

_Captured. There was a brief moment of panic as the notion set in: that he’d actually been captured in the field. That this was happening. Because being captured was the last thing you were ever supposed to let happen –_

_No. Breathe. He inhaled deeply and got a grip of himself. Alright, yes, the current situation was probably less than ideal, but it wasn’t exactly the first pickle he’d ever gotten himself into._

_And after all, he was a member of the ODS. Less than ideal was his status quo. And he had three valiant shadow warriors who were probably effecting a rescue at this very moment, so all he had to do was keep his head and wait._

_"Well that was certainly refreshing," he remarked, licking the moisture from his lips. "Though I usually shower with a bit more soap than that."_

_From the way the man with the bucket continued to glower at him, the joke had apparently fallen flat. That, or the bugger didn’t speak a word of English. "Tough crowd," Billy muttered, shifting slightly as he began to carefully test the strength and quality of his bonds. The second guard, however, smirked a bit and nodded to someone outside Billy’s field of vision._

_From somewhere behind him, a heavily-accented voice emerged: "We are going to ask you questions. And you are going to give us answers."_

_Billy craned his head back, trying to get a look at the third man. "Am I now? Doesn’t sound much like me at all. And really, mate, I think you’ve seen too many old movies. This whole set up is a wee bit overdone. Cliché, one might even say."_

_This finally elicited a chuckle, though the sound was rather devoid of the warmth and mirth one would typically associate with laughter. "Ah yes. Forgive us, but here we are fans of the, how do you say, Classics."_

_"Well, I can appreciate an affinity for the tried and true methods, but I would recommend expanding your repertoire nonetheless." Damn. Whoever had tied these knots had actually known what they were doing. There was no yield as he tugged on the ropes that chafed against his wrists._

_"Oh, do not worry. We are not against being... creative. Perhaps we will surprise you with our innovation later, yes?"_

_"I do very much enjoy surprises," Billy replied with a grin. "Birthday parties in particular. I do love a proper birthday par–"_

_The bucket caught him in the face with a resounding clang, snapping his head back. For a long moment Billy was too stunned and dazed to react, or even notice the warm trickle that was working its way down from his nose over his lip to his chin. Then he blinked and shook his head to clear the last metallic echoes from his ears. "Right. I amend my earlier claim. I enjoy most surprises, though I’ll concede that there are a few I wouldn’t mind doing without."_

_Again, that dry chuckle. The man who had been behind Billy finally stepped into the light. And there was yet another surprise; he hardly cut as ominous a figure as his voice would suggest. He was trim, and a bit on the shorter side, though a longstanding acquaintance with Casey Malick meant Billy wasn’t abount to dismiss anyone’s potential for violence on account of their size. Still, the man was a bit older, though he’d aged well, with short, neat silver hair and a clean-shaven face the years had weathered and worn, leaving crinkles around startlingly blue eyes. He might have looked a bit like someone’s grandfather, if it weren’t for the nightstick in his hand._

_The net effect was a tad disconcerting._

_"Well now, we shall start with the basics, yes?" He smiled, then abruptly swung the nightstick into Billy’s stomach. "Who do you work for?"_

_Billy grunted as the breath flew out of him, doubling over as much as his bonds would let him. He grimaced, then straightened up and began to laugh._

_The two guards exchanged looks, and their commander frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. "There is something funny about this to you?"_

_"Just feeling sorry for you, mate," Billy replied with an impish grin._

_"And why, pray tell is that?" The commander raised an eyebrow._

_"Because..." Billy’s smile darkened slightly. "Because I’ve got mates I imagine you’ve managed to make all kinds of pissed off. And you cannot possibly fathom the unholy hell they will rain down upon you when they come after you. So I reckon you blighters ought to have your fun while you can, because believe me, there’s a storm a-coming the likes of which you can’t possibly comprehend."_

_The man spent a moment looking quizzical, then smiled. It was a warm, kind sort of smile that made the corners of his eyes wrinkle up. It was the sort of smile that wasn’t supposed to be accompanied by a swift blow to the jaw that left stars in Billy’s vision. It was the sort of smile that in this place, on that particular man, was simply wrong._

_(Billy had a feeling he might come to dread that smile.)_

_"Well then," the commander continued, reflectively rubbing his knuckles as Billy worked his jaw around, feeling it pop. "If I have only so much time before this ‘unholy hell’ arrives, I would do best to make the most of it now, yes? So if you would not mind: who do you work for?"_

_As as the nightstick connected with his stomach once again, Billy gritted his teeth._

_Because he knew that all he had to do was wait._

_The ODS would come.  
_  
\-----

 

It took three months to find Billy. It took thirty minutes to get him out. They’d timed their mission well, and amid the confusion, there was no one to stop them. The chopper Fay arranged was equipped as a medevac, complete with a pair of paramedics to monitor during the flight.

These were good things -- important things -- but Michael hardly noticed. Not with his attention so fixed on Billy.

He’d been the one to carry Billy out, taking up the bony form and hoisting him lightly in the air. Billy hadn’t as much as flinched, his body lax as his head splayed against Michael’s shoulder, one long arm dangling crookedly down as the mangled hand brushed Michael’s leg on the way up. Billy smelled of blood and excrement, but Michael just held him tighter for it.

On board the chopper, Billy was placed on a stretcher, quickly given rudimentary treatment from the paramedic. Getting the machine to monitor his vitals was easy, but they’d been unable to find a vein for an IV in his arm due to the severity of his dehydration and malnutrition, and settled for a central line instead.

Billy wasn’t the only one, though. They’d managed to find three other surviving prisoners. One -- a Russian man, about Michael’s age -- had been physically capable of walking, but every time he spoke, his booming voice was raging and incoherent. He laughed hysterically from time to time, before breaking off in fits of terror that made him shriek like a child. The medics had had to settle for treating him sitting down because once he curled up into a ball, hugging his knees against his chest, he refused to move.

There was also a woman, who Rick had gently carried out. It was impossible to tell if she were young or old, but the remains of her clothing look like what the young women wear in Morovia. She was awake most of the time, eyes so bright and blue, that for a moment, Michael thought she might be okay despite the brittleness of her hair or the cracks in her lips. When they got on board, she started to cry silently, and despite her eroded and worn appearance, Michael recognized her from their intel as the Polish humanitarian. Rick seemed afraid to face Billy and stayed by her instead, but when he offered a comforting hand on her shoulder, she shrieked loudly and pulled away with such vehemence that the medics finally sedated her for fear of her causing damage to the chopper.

Casey had easily carried the last prisoner. It had been a man, as best they could tell, although his nationality and age would be a mystery. He had been so emaciated, so weak, that the simple act of carrying him had been too much. He’d died before the chopper set down, and Michael had made the order to leave him behind over Rick’s objections. They were almost overloading the helicopter as it was, and Michael couldn’t risk the operation’s safety for a corpse.

Michael did not like the decision, but it was what it was. He steadied himself by staying by Billy’s side, watching, waiting. He tried not to think about how much Billy looked like that man, how close Billy was to becoming a corpse. If they’d been a week later, even a day...

Michael didn’t think it. Wouldn’t think it. It would be alright. Billy would be alright. They found him. They found him.

Everything else would work out, and Michael refused to believe otherwise.

-o-

Michael had been here before.

Not literally, of course. The hospital in Germany was cold and cramped, foreign and unfamiliar, but Fay had arranged for private care and access to high grade facilities. She said the doctor was an asset, one who could be trusted. Michael didn’t trust strangers, but he trusted Fay, and really, he had bigger things to think about.

The flight over had been hard -- seeing Billy so still, so lifeless -- watching his protruding ribcage rise and fall in desperate, ragged hitches -- but sitting in the waiting room always seemed so much harder. Because Michael had been here before, impotent and restless with blood on his hands, waiting for news, waiting for a prognosis. Waiting.

In South America, it had been a clinic in the middle of the night. Rick had been unconscious when they got him there, barely stitched together by a doctor who didn’t speak English. Michael hadn’t been able to stand, his legs burning all night until Rick woke up in the morning.

Before that, in an army hospital near Mogadishu. Casey had been knocked down a staircase and when they couldn’t get him to wake up, they’d brought him there. Michael had paced the floors, listening to soldiers make chitchat as the hours ticked by.

India, too, in an understaffed rural hospital where Billy was nursing a bullet wound. The locals had stared at them and whispered as they hunkered down to wait, but Michael hadn’t noticed, hadn’t even bothered to worry.

Because there had been times before that. There would be times after this. Cramped waiting rooms and worry they didn’t talk about. Uncertain futures and hopes they refused to compromise.

Getting here was the hard part. After that, survival was just what they did.

Here, in Germany, Michael drank black coffee to settle the uneasiness in his stomach. He sat and he paced and he believed in that.

He believed.

-o-

Rick took it the hardest. In the three months Billy had been missing, Rick had been the one who struggled with it the most. It was new to him, and Billy was the first person he’d known to go missing in the field. The first was always the hardest.

Still, he paced and sat in equal turns. He jittered uncertainly, opening his mouth but never finding the words.

Michael watched him, exchanging a glance with Casey, who just shrugged.

"It’ll be okay," Michael said finally.

Rick jerked, looking up in surprise. "What?"

Michael continued. "Billy," he said. "He’s going to be okay."

Rick’s expression wavered, facing paling a little bit. "He just...he looked so bad."

"Three months of captivity is a serious thing," Casey interjected. "He was held hostage and tortured, not staying at the Ritz."

Rick blinked rapidly, nodding. "I know. I just..."

Michael smiled, because he understood. "It’s okay, Martinez," he said. "Billy’s going to have a rough go of things, but we found him."

"Besides," Casey said, "he’s going to need us at 100 percent when he wakes up. So I strongly suggest you relax and trust that Billy is far too stubborn to let radical terrorists get him down for long."

Rick’s mouth twitched, the semblance of a smile taking form. "Yeah," he agreed.

"Just remember," Michael said, settling back in his chair, "waiting will always be the hardest part."

-o-

Time passed. Michael kept track, watching the progress on his watch but not noting its significance. Seconds, minutes, hours. They didn’t matter now. Not after three months.

In all of this, Michael didn’t think about what was happening to Billy. He didn’t think about his teammate -- his friend -- laid out on an examination table while doctors and nurses cut him open and inspected the damage. He didn’t think about someone stitching his skin, mending his bones. He didn’t think about permanent damage. He didn’t think about psychological side effects.

He didn’t think about Billy, alone and hostage for months. He didn’t think about whippings and burns and broken bones. He didn’t think about falling asleep in a putrid cell, wondering if anyone would come. Thinking maybe no one would after three months.

Michael didn’t think about a lot of things.

He just thought about Billy. He thought about picking him up for work, joking about his lack of personal habits. He thought about Billy dumping too much sugar into his coffee and charming women on missions just to see them smile. He thought about Billy buying him a drink when Fay left him. Billy, poking fun at Casey, mentoring Rick.

Billy.

Michael thought about Billy, and trusted that the rest would be okay, just like it always was.

-o-

"It’s taking too long," Rick said, shifting restlessly. He looked helplessly at his watch. "Why is it taking so long?"

"You saw his injuries. You really thought he’d be okay in just a few hours?" Casey asked. "I know you’re idealistic, but I thought you had better sense than that."

Rick went white at the thought. "That’s what I mean," he said. "What if he’s not -- I mean, what if -- I mean--"

Michael sighed. "You don’t know Billy," he said. His mouth was open. He was going to say, he’s been through worse, but then Michael realized he wasn’t sure that was true. Instead, he furrowed his brow. "He always bounces back."

"And he’ll have us now," Casey said. "What more could he possibly need?"

-o-

There was a crick in Michael’s neck and a growing numbness in his backside. He shifted, tried to move, but nothing alleviated it. He was about to take to pacing, when the doctor was there.

She was Michael’s age and plain, graying hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her face was worn with exhaustion and at first, she didn’t say anything.

Michael blinked, trying to understand. Her eyes met his, and a chill ran through his body.

Ignoring it, he got to his feet. Without hesitating, he asked, "Can we see him?"

-o-

The doctor led them to a conference room instead. She was sober as she looked at the chart, taking a few deep breaths as the team assembled itself. Rick was like a wide-eyed rabbit, scared and fidgety. Casey was already glaring, showing a contempt that would frighten most people off.

The doctor wasn’t unnerved, though. In truth, she was hardly looking at them at all. She gathered a breath and tried to smile. "Your friend is alive," she said. "I want you to know that, before I say anything else. He is alive."

Casey scoffed. Rick blinked.

Michael swallowed. "Of course he is," he said. "But you’re saying that like that’s the good news."

She took another breath, hesitating. "You said he was missing three months?"

"A little over," Michael said, sitting up straighter and feeling his frustration spike. "But you don’t need to beat around the bush. We know he’s got a long road to recovery. Whatever you have to say, we’re ready for it."

-o-

Michael had known, realistically, that it was bad. But no matter what he said, the doctor’s litany was still hard to hear.

Billy was covered in burns and lacerations, all in various stages of healing and of varying severity. None of them were life-threatening -- or he’d surely have been dead when they found him -- but the widespread nature was suggestive of pronounced abuse. There was literally no part of Billy’s body unscathed and the scarring would be profound although it was fortunate that his face had been spared the worst of the damage. A few wounds were infected, especially on his back and legs, where the apparent bed sores were inflamed.

Billy’s jaw was badly broken and had already begun to heal incorrectly. This would require more surgery in the future for Billy to regain the use of normal speech and eating. He was also missing just under half his teeth. Some of them in the front appeared to have been knocked out incidentally, but the ones in back showed evidence of traumatic pulling.

Almost all his ribs were cracked, one or two fully broken, so they had to watch him for a pneumothorax. His nose was also broken, several times in fact, and the bones in his hands were so badly broken that they were nearly lost causes. With several surgeries to rebreak the bones and repair the damage, Billy might regain most of his range of motion, but it was questionable.

The dislocated shoulder was equally problematic. It looked as if it had been wrenched free nearly two months ago and slipped back into joint several times, each subsequent dislocation causing more profound damage. With a little surgical intervention it would probably heal, but Billy would always have to watch out for it in the future.

These were all serious concerns, but the doctor was most concerned about the dehydration and starvation. Billy had lost weight to the point where he was dangerously malnourished. The loss of nutrients had made his bones brittle and caused his hair to start thinning. While they were already running a full spectrum of IV nutrients and fluids, they were fighting the tide against impending organ failure. He was already in the early stages of renal failure, and the rest of his systems would be sure to follow unless they managed to stabilize his kidneys.

This was all the short term damage, the doctor tried to explain. There would be months of recovery ahead, including extensive rehab if Billy was ever going to walk or move like he used to. And that didn’t even start to cover the psychological damage after enduring something of this nature.

"He may not be the man you remember," she said as she finished. "He’s been through more than I think any of us could imagine."

Rick looked almost ready to break. Casey’s hands were gripping the seat so tightly that it looked almost ready to snap.

Michael took a breath and looked her in the eyes. Doctors had to be realistic. They had to explain all the possibilities. But she didn’t know this team. She didn’t know Billy.

Without hesitating, he nodded unflinchingly. "So, can we see him now?"

-o-

Billy’s room was small, crowded with equipment. The sheer number of machines made it noisy and too warm. It was tucked at the back of the ICU, away from the other patients but still close to the nurse’s station, no doubt thanks to Fay’s intervention. Privacy was important for spies, but they weren’t about to compromise on care for Billy. Not after all this.

Inside, there was hardly enough room for the three of them. There was a small window with the blinds drawn, leaving the room dim. A nurse excused herself as they entered, and they were finally alone with Billy.

The last time they’d seen Billy, he’d been more dead than alive. Michael could still feel the lightness of his body, the bones poking into papery skin. In truth, he looked no better now. His face was still colorless, the matted beard still unattended. The gaunt cheeks were no less unsettling, but someone had taken the time to try sorting through the remnants of Billy’s too long hair.

His shoulder was tightly wrapped and both of his hands were braced. There were multiple IVs running to a central line, leaving his stick-thin arms lax at his sides. The freshest burns and cuts were no longer visible, but the angry marks of fading abuses were still visible. Billy was half covered with a sheet, his bony legs poking through it at unnatural angles.

There was a nasal canula up his nose, and the steady beeping of the heart monitor was probably meant to reassure them. Michael took in the other equipment -- profusers and monitors, the dialysis machine and a notably empty bag for urine hung at the end of the bed -- and deemed it important but irrelevant.

Because the medical issues mattered, but only as the obstacles they’d overcome. What mattered now -- all that mattered -- was Billy.

They’d left him for three months and let this happen to him. Now they wouldn’t leave him. They’d stay here, stay with him until he got better. Every painful step, they’d walk with him.

Rick shuffled to the far side, tears in his eyes as he hovered close. He rested one hand on the rails of Billy’s bed, as if afraid to touch the Scot. Casey slipped in next to him, face almost unreadable. It was his own kind of shock, Michael knew.

Michael approached Billy’s other side and looked down. It was hard to see, looking at Billy like that. Billy was always alive and vibrant -- now he looked broken.

Reaching down, Michael avoided the mangled hands and place a hand on Billy’s wrist. It was too thin, almost fragile in his touch, but he still squeezed, just hard enough for Billy to know.

"We’re here, Billy," he promised for all of them. "And we’re not going anywhere."

-o-

It didn’t take long to develop a new rhythm. The ODS had always been very adaptable, easily finding patterns and routines where most other people were lost. They took turns, making rounds between a nearby hotel room, the cafeteria and Billy’s room. They were all there for daily updates from the doctor, who monitored Billy’s progress with growing concern.

His kidneys weren’t rebounding. There was evidence of pneumonia in his lungs. The tox screen had revealed nothing pronounced except the lingering effects of sedatives. She was worried.

Michael understood her worry, even if he knew she was wrong.

Billy was safe now. They would handle the rest from there.

-o-

Sometimes, they sat together, crowded close, watching Billy as he drifted in unconsciousness. He didn’t flicker, didn’t even twitch, and they counted the seconds by the beats of his unwavering heart.

"It’s hard to understand," Rick said, face twisting in something like pain, disgust. "That people can do this to each other."

"Never underestimate the human capacity for evil," Casey mused.

"Most of what we can see is superficial," Michael reminded, a bit more gently. Some of the bandages have been removed, and nothing can fully cover the wealth of scars or the unhealthy clutch of Billy’s broken fingers. "Painful, but nothing he can’t survive."

"The human body is woefully frail," Casey added. He held a finger to his head, looking toward Rick knowingly. "It’s the mind they can never touch."

Rick smiled, reassured.

Michael chuckled. "Casey Malick, doling out compliments," he said. "Billy will be so flattered."

-o-

Rick was earnest in his vigils, sitting close to the bed with a newfound intensity. After that first day, he was the one who held Billy the most, as if hope could be transferred by proximity alone.

Casey manned Billy’s bedside with astute practicality. He often stood, sometimes walking, and he refused to talk. "He’d never let me live it down," he commented wryly, when Michael relieved him every day.

Michael found himself in between. When he sat next to Billy, he couldn’t avoid the reality -- that Billy had a long fight ahead, that Billy might never be field ready again -- but fixated on the thing that mattered. They had Billy back.

Billy slept, unmoving. The nurses checked him, taking his vitals and cleaning his wounds, and Billy never flinched.

But Billy had waited three months for them. Now Michael would wait as long as he had to for Billy to come back all the way.

-o-

They were there for a week when one of Billy’s kidneys stopped working.

This had been a worry since they’d brought him in, but with medical intervention, the hospital had managed to keep Billy with some function. It was the primary concern, delaying the rest of his treatment. The surgery for his hands and shoulder had to be postponed until his internal functions were stabilized, but Billy just wasn’t making enough progress. The overall effect was building and Billy’s body wasn’t strong enough to fight it much longer.

Worse, the strain was compromising his other systems. Billy’s liver was showing signs of impending failure and the fluid build up in his lungs was getting problematic.

In short, Billy was dying.

Or so the doctor wanted them to believe.

Rick half gaped. "There’s got to be something you can do."

Casey’s body went stiff, his eyes darkening dangerously. "There will be something you can do."

Michael stepped in front of them, looking at the doctor earnestly. "Tell us the options."

The doctor was not intimidated and she met Michael’s gaze without apology. "Right now, we’re trying to support both kidneys and failing," she said. "I think our best bet is to remove the kidney that’s failing so we can focus our resources on the one that’s slightly healthier. If we do this, we might be able to stave off major organ failure."

The honesty probably should have been frightening.

But Michael wasn’t scared. Not even a little.

"Do it," he said. "Do what you need to do."

-o-

As they prepped Billy for surgery, the team watched. The sores were starting to scab and heal, and Casey had taken the time to help shave off the worst of Billy’s beard, so he looked better in some ways.

If he was still skeletal in appearance, he was at least recognizable. They’d gotten him this far.

"We’ll be here when you’re done," Michael promised.

Then Billy was wheeled out, leaving the remaining three members of the ODS alone.

-o-

This time, their positions had changed.

Casey paced, visibly wired. He lashed out when people spoke to him, muttering the notes to songs with angry vigor.

Rick didn’t move from his chair, hardly even blinked. He was almost calm about it, devoid of doubt.

Michael felt Casey’s rage. He understood Rick’s peace. Reality was a pressing weight and hope was fragile thing.

This was their hardest mission yet, but failure wasn’t an option.

Not ever and certainly not now.

-o-

Over the years, Michael had learned to take the small victories for what they were.

The surgery lasted four hours. Billy’s heart had stopped once on the table, but they’d restored the rhythm quickly. The kidney had been well beyond repair, and the one they’d left in would need extensive support in order to rebound.

But he was alive.

His condition was more critical than before with the pneumonia settling into his lungs, but he was alive. Intubated, on a full range of antibiotics, but alive.

And some victories were bigger than others.

-o-

Michael had learned a lot from Billy, but mostly he’d discovered the powerful of positive thinking.

Casey would never admit that, of course, but Billy’s track record often spoke for itself. Billy had the ability to make things happen by sheer force of will and unwavering belief. It was how he’d charmed assets and fooled marks; it was how he had stayed alive, no matter what.

Michael often left that role for Billy to fulfill -- Michael himself was better as a pragmatist -- but Billy would never believe in less than total recovery.

And Michael would return the favor.

Until Billy could do it himself.

-o-

After another week, Billy produced a bag full of urine.

For most people, bodily functions weren’t cause for celebration.

Most people hadn’t been held captive and tortured for three months.

Rick brought scotch and Casey poured it into paper cups. Michael held his aloft and grinned. "To Billy," he said.

"Here, here," Rick rejoined.

"And I can drink to that," Casey agreed.

The tapped their glasses and drank heartily, leaving the rest of the bottle for Billy, when he finally got out.

-o-

The doctor removed the ventilator and reduced the sedation. Billy’s condition was upgraded to stable.

"What about his hands?" Michael asked.

The doctor shrugged. "We can schedule that," she said. "But I thought you might be interested in taking your friend home for the operations."

"You mean he’s cleared for travel?" Rick asked, sounding as shocked as he did giddy.

She smiled tautly. "His condition has stabilized," she continued. "If he continues to show improvements, then I have no medical reason to keep him here."

Like Michael said, some victories were bigger than others.

-o-

A few more days and the hint of color began to show in Billy’s cheeks. He was still sickly and gaunt, but he looked more alive than dead for the first time since they’d rescued him. He was also gaining weight, not a lot, but enough to soften the effect of his knobby bones pushing against his skin.

His hair was filling in, too, soft baby fuzz growing in the splotchy patches on his scalp. The cuts across his body were healing, still reddish purple on his pale skin but fading. Even the worst of the bed sores had dwindled into angry red mark, eased by the constant care from the hospital staff.

Michael sat by Billy’s side and couldn’t hide his smile. "It’s almost over, Billy," he said, hand on Billy’s arm. "It’s really almost over."

-o-

Over the last three weeks, Michael had kept in contact with Fay on a daily basis. She’d been helping organize the medical end of things, handling the necessary paperwork and ensuring the best privacy and care possible. She had been decidedly scant on operational issues, though Michael had suspected she’d been getting pressure to find out their timeline and what intel they might have gained from Billy’s recovery.

Fay valued her job. She often said she valued it more than Michael, but Michael knew better.

So when Higgins really wanted results, he called Michael himself.

"I’m told that Operative Collins is recovering as well as can be expected," he said. "That’s impressive. Your team has done good work."

"We always do," Michael replied.

Higgins hesitated just a little. "It’s time to come home," he said. "I’ve spoken to the doctors, and Operative Collins is well enough to travel."

"He has a ways to go," Michael interjected.

"And he will have all the help and support he needs here," Higgins said. There was a small pause, an important pause, and Michael knew what was coming next. "And the ODS will be able to start taking other assignments--"

Michael shook his head. "This mission isn’t over," he said.

"I’m not asking you to leave him behind--"

"Good," Michael replied. "Because we’re not. We won’t. We will be there for him, every step of the way, and then we’ll all come back. Together."

It was a lofty statement. It was an impractical statement. Michael knew, realistically, it would be months before Billy would be back at work. They would work through that later, though. When Billy was awake and alert, when he was telling stories and making jokes.

On the other end, Higgins took an even, measured breath. "Just bring your team home, Operative Dorset."

Michael didn’t obey a lot of orders, but that was one he would willingly submit to after all this time.

-o-

The doctor kept charting Billy’s improvement, but Michael had to admit, it was hard to see the changes in Billy. He was still badly underweight and, although he wasn’t deathly pale anymore, the pallid hue in his cheeks was hardly the ruddiness of life Michael might expect three weeks out. But really, the hardest thing was the stillness.

In all of it, the ups and downs, Billy hadn’t even moved.

Casey purposefully ignored this. Michael kept a wary eye on Billy. But Rick couldn’t stay quiet. During Billy’s daily checkup, he asked, "So when is he going to wake up?"

The doctor straightened the sheet back over Billy, covering the healing wounds on his legs. She shrugged. "Every patient has their own timeline."

"I know," Rick said. "But you keep saying he’s getting better. So when is he going to, you know, get better?"

Her look was sympathetic. "Better is a relative term. Your friend is out of immediate physical danger but the cumulative toll on his body is profound. We haven’t even began the tenuous task of fixing his more superficial injuries or assessing his psychological condition."

Michael’s stomach twinged but he refused to listen.

She looked at them each before her eyes settled on Billy. "You’re going to have be patient and very realistic," she said. "This is far from over yet for any of you."

When she left, Rick fell silent and sullen.

Casey scoffed. "Damned medical professionals," he said. "They have the worst God complexes of all."

"But maybe she’s right," Rick said, looking at Billy. "What he’s been through--"

"Is horrible," Michael agreed. "But this is Billy. And we’ll get him through this. It’s going to be okay, Martinez. You’ll see."

-o-

The paperwork was in order and the order was in from Langley. The military transport was equipped with medical gear and an army doctor would accompany them for the ride. Rick and Casey went about organizing things at the motel, and Michael set to putting together the collection of items in the hospital room. Rick’s books, creased and worn but unread, and Casey’s pencils, honed to sharp points in his free time.

Billy himself didn’t have much. Michael found the tattered clothing in a bag. The scraps were still bloody, hardly big enough to count. They’d been all Billy had had back in that cell, and they weren’t anything at all.

Without asking, Michael threw them out and settled next to Billy’s side. "We’ll get you a new suit back home," he said. "A better one, though I’m not sure why I’d bother. You’ll just leave it wrinkled in a corner of your motel room."

On the bed, Billy slept. The repose looked comfortable enough, most of the medical interventions gone now.

Michael took a breath and resisted the urge to sigh. "You’ll want to wake up soon," he said. "Back home, you’ll have so many stories to tell."

In his mind, Michael could almost hear it, the crafted tales, embellish for intrigue and effect. Billy was good at telling stories. Billy was just good.

Leaning closer, Michael put his hand on Billy’s wrist. It was still too bony, but he squeezed anyway. "I know it’s been hard," he said. "And I know it took us too long, but we’re here now."

Billy didn’t flinch, didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

Michael’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t let go. "Now we’re just waiting on you."

-o-

When Rick and Casey came back, Michael was ready to go. Seated in the chair, he was scanning a book, pretending to read but the fact that it was in German and that Michael had left his glasses in the States was making it difficult.

Not that it mattered.

So when Rick and Casey came in, arguing about airport security procedures, he smiled with ready relief.

"Just be glad we aren’t flying commercial," Michael weighed in.

"That’s what I said," Casey replied. "But Rick is under the impression that being sexually assaulted is the optimal traveling experience."

The quip was ripe for a reply, one Rick would readily give. Except that he wasn’t paying attention to Casey. He wasn’t paying attention to Michael. He was looking at Billy.

Michael turned, following his gaze. Billy’s position hadn’t changed, body still stretched out on the bed, head rolled just slightly toward them, but something was different.

That was when Michael realized, Billy’s eyes were open.

Billy was awake.

-o-

Rick was too stunned to move and Casey was ramrod straight. With a hitching breath, Michael found his senses and moved forward, dropping to the chair and looking intently at the Scotsman.

"Billy?" he asked, unable to hide his grin. "Good to have you back with us."

There was no response.

Michael reached out, touching Billy’s arm gently. "Kind of a long nap, even for you."

The humor was off kilter and poorly delivered, but it would still elicit a response.

Or should have.

On the bed, Billy didn’t move.

A frown started to form on Michael’s lips as he inched forward, directing his head into Billy’s line of sight. "Billy?" he asked again, more insistent now. He shook the Scot’s arm carefully. "Billy?"

But Billy didn’t move.

By now, Rick had moved forward. "What’s wrong with him?" he asked.

Casey flanked the other side, face taut.

Michael swallowed, holding a hand in front of Billy’s face. He waved it. Snapping his fingers just shy of Billy’s nose.

Nothing.

Not a flicker, no sign of life. Nothing.

Small victories, Michael tried to tell himself, even as his stomach bottomed out and his heart thudded painfully.

But staring at Billy’s vacant blue eyes, Michael remembered why some victories seemed so small. Because sometimes the smallest gains weren’t victories at all, but monumental losses. Michael could win a battle and lose the war. He could get Billy back and lose him in all the ways that matter.

They’d found Billy. They’d brought him back. He was alive, awake and ready to go home.

But as Michael looked into Billy’s unresponsive eyes, he was more lost than ever.


	4. III. Recovery

III.  
Recovery

__

_Billy grunted when they threw him to the ground, the jarring impact driving the air from his lungs as he hit the unyielding floor. The guard muttered something in Russian (or Belarusian, or maybe Ukrainian? Billy couldn’t tell, though he was sure Rick would have known) then slammed the door shut, leaving Billy alone in his narrow prison._

_For a few moments, all he did was breathe, moving only so much as to slowly curl on to his side, pulling his knees up protectively toward his chest. Everything ached. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and the shuddering of his heart, which he was sure had skipped a few critical beats earlier. Even now, he couldn’t get the stink of scorched hair and ozone out of his nostrils. Or the awful hum out of his ears..._

_The questions were monotonous: it was the same set, every time, like a broken bloody record: who are you. Who do you work for. Who sent you. What are you doing here. Over and over._

_Of course, he didn’t give them answers: at least, not the ones they were looking for. Michael had his mind and Casey had his fists, but Billy had his words: they were his weapon and his shield. He could talk all day and say nothing, and that was just what he’d been driven to. Whenever they’d let up long enough for him to catch a breath, he’d make some smart remark, or an offhanded jibe. He’d even dropped a few literary references here and there, though he felt most of them went unappreciated in the company of his interrogators. Sometimes it seemed like his chatter only egged them on, but so long as he made himself say what he wanted to say, and not what they wanted to hear, well... that was what was important. Billy wasn’t about to tell these buggers anything useful. And the more he heard himself talk like this was all some lark and it was all going to be all right, the more easily he believed it._

_Only he wasn’t saying anything now. Just breathing raggedly. He’d been a bit off his game when it came to verbal sparring today, and now that his audience had departed there was no need to keep up the show._

_“Bollocks,” he finally mumbled, just to remind himself that he still had the use of his voice._

_It seemed to sum up the situation pretty succinctly._

_He didn’t have a very good grasp of time – he hadn’t seen daylight since he’d been brought to wherever he was – but from what he’d inferred from the regularity of the food (if you could call it that) they’d given him and the intervals between beatings, he’d hazard a guess that he’d been here a week. Which was about a week longer than he would have liked._

_“I have to say, when I get home, I’m giving this whole place a very low rating on TripAdvisor. My accommodations have been less than ideal, and the service has been simply awful. I’m sorry to admit, but this experience has significantly reduced my opinion of your country, to the point that I would no longer recommend it as a travel destination!” he had proclaimed during his interrogation._

_The interrogator had only responded by touching the jumper cable back to Billy’s chest. And Billy had stopped talking long enough to scream._

_Now, he reached gingerly up to touch the burned skin and hissed – the current hadn’t been too strong, but already he could feel blisters forming where the flesh had been seared raw. The memory of the pain coursing through his veins, the way his muscles had all contracted at once and the way the electricity had hummed its way through his bones, making his teeth feel as if they’d vibrate free from his skull as his very atoms tried to quiver apart... he tried to push it away, stamp it out. But it kept creeping back. That, or the memory of the day before, or the day before. They’d started with ‘the basics’ as promised – simple beatings that had left him bruised, nose bloodied, a tooth loose and a rib or two possibly cracked. But yesterday (if his judgement of how long ago yesterday had been was at all accurate), his captors had elected to vary their repertoire by replacing fists and truncheons with a car battery and cables._

_Billy grimaced and finally worked up the energy to sit up and lean back against the wall of his cell. It was a small enough space – no bigger than a closet – that he didn’t need to move far. It was maybe two meters by one and a half meters, making it barely enough to stretch out, with nothing to furnish it but a pail they’d left for him to relieve himself in. The lack of windows made him think he was probably underground, and the look of the building suggested something industrial – it was all concrete and old corroded metal, with rust stains that mimicked blood streaking down the walls. At least, he hoped they were rust stains._

_In the cramped confines, he found himself thinking of Malick, and the time the crazy blighter had shut himself in that box for hours on end just to make a point about his endurance. Hah. Hell, Casey would probably go through all of this voluntarily, just to push his own physical limitations. After he and Michael and Rick got here, they’d swap stories of who’d tolerated worst. And Billy would explore his own limits for just how much scotch he could drink in a night... Aye, that was a good plan. All of this was right miserable at the moment, but it would make for brilliant stories later on. And of course, they’d all regale one another with retellings of the valiant rescue while standing around the water cooler at Langley for months to come._

_“Allo? Razve kto-to yestʹ?”_

_Billy froze at the sound of the disembodied voice, his heart skipping. Had they come back? They’d never come back for him so soon before._

_No, no there was no one at the door. The voice was oddly muffled, but it seemed to originate from somewhere else. There was a slight skittering noise, and Billy flinched in spite of himself. He’d seen a rat earlier, and hadn’t been too fond of the notion of having vermin for bunk mates. But when he turned and peered in the direction of the sound, he saw gravel slipping from a crack in the concrete. Slowly, he inched over, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the protests of his limbs._

_“Govorite li vy russkiĭ yazyk?”_

_There was someone on the other side of the wall, in the cell adjacent to his. Billy hesitated, then leaned over to the hole in the wall. It was small: less than an inch in diameter._

_“Ukraïnsʹkyy̆ ? Bielaruski ?”_

_If Rick were here, he’d be able to translate. Hell, even Casey knew enough Russian that he could probably suss out whatever was being said, given it was from a similar branch of the Slavic linguistic tree. But Billy’s skills with language were confined primarily to English, leaving him at a loss._

_“Français? Italiano? Deutsch?” The voice continued to query, and Billy realized what was being asked._

_“Er, English?” he finally croaked back._

_There was a pause._

_“You are a prisoner here too?” the voice asked, wavering slightly. The accent was thick, but the words were clear and mercifully in a language Billy spoke and understood quite well._

_“Well, I can’t say I’m here for my health,” he replied. “Out of curiosity, mate, just how many languages do you speak?”_

_There was a pause. “Counting the dead ones? Nine.”_

_Billy whistled. “You know, I have a friend you’d probably get on with. Where you blokes both found the time to learn that many, I’ll never know.”_

_“My name –” the voice stopped, coughing raspily for a few moments before continuing, “–My name is Anton Tsykalov, I am... I was a linguistics professor at the University.”_

_Billy peered through the hole. He couldn’t see much, but he caught a glimpse of what looked like a tired, haggard face and dark brown eyes. “And what exactly did you do to earn the ire of our delightful hosts? The life of an academic hardly seems like an offensive one,” he remarked._

_“I learned nine languages. Most of which are still useful,” Tsykalov replied bitterly. “They take me from my home, and they tell me I must translate for them. They take me here. They make me listen to tapes and recordings and tell them what is said. If I am slow, or if I do not know, or if they do not like what I tell them has been said...”_

_He trailed off and Billy grimaced; he’d been in the hands of the Commander and his men long enough to imagine whatever the rest of that sentence would have entailed. “I’m sorry, mate.” He waited a moment. “How long have you been here?”_

_“I... am not sure. It has been a long time. Too long.” And from the tiredness in his voice, Billy couldn’t help but believe it. “There are many who have come and gone. They do not live long, usually. No one ever gets out.”_

_There was a futility in his voice that Billy felt himself balk at. He felt the need to fight it. “Well, I can assure you, none of them had mates like mine.”_

_A wry chuckle from the other side of the wall. “I would like to believe you, but after all this time, I am not sure I know how.”_

_“Then I’ll believe enough for the both of us, yeah?” Billy made himself smile. “They’ll come and rescue us. Just you wait.”_

_And that valiant rescue would come soon. He just had to hang on. Another day._

_It would probably just be another day.  
_  
\-----

While Billy was missing, Michael thought about a lot of things. He went over the last mission, mentally logged all the details, looking for something he could have missed, something he should have seen. He thought about what Billy might be going through, if he was dead somewhere or tucked away, chained and neglected like Carson. He thought about the first day he met Billy, about how he’d known even then that Billy was the right man for his team.

Mostly, though, he thought about bringing Billy home. He thought about quiet jokes as they boarded, wistful sighs as the plane took off. He heard himself saying, “See, I told you we’d come” and Billy’s earnest reply, “I never doubted it.”

They were going to come home without much fanfare intended but people would still show up to celebrate. Fay and Adele, Blanke, even Higgins. All there to show support for a spy coming in from three long months in the cold. It would be nothing less than a triumphant return, a powerful display of the power of spywork. Of the power of friendship.

The reality, though, was somewhat anticlimactic. 

Approval was slow in coming, both from the doctor and from the States, but Billy’s vitals continued to improve as he shook the lingering infection and battled back the worst of the pneumonia. He was stable for transport, and his German doctor had signed off on his recovery this far, even though she’d left them with the warning that Billy still had a long and difficult journey ahead of him.

Michael had smiled, nodded and thanked her politely, but hadn’t given her much credence. She had saved Billy’s life, and Michael was grateful for that, but she didn’t know Billy. After all, she kept saying that the catatonia might be a longstanding part of Billy’s recovery.

This was a prognosis Michael refused to accept. He had risked everything in getting Billy back, and he knew his team. They would bring Billy back -- in mind and spirit.

Having him laid up in a German hospital made that more difficult, and Michael had convinced the others that the trip back home would make all the difference.

It was somewhat arduous, if only for its time consuming monotony. Fay had arranged for a military transport, outfitted for medical needs. She’d even managed to get an army doctor and medic on the flight to monitor Billy’s condition. But there were forms to be signed and paperwork to fill out; they had to cross their t’s and dot their i’s and by the time they had Billy transferred from an ambulance to the plane, Michael was exhausted.

Casey and Rick seemed to be faring little better, though they showed it differently. Rick was fidgeting constantly, pacing back and forth, as if he might be afraid to get too close to Billy. Billy’s ordeal was particularly hard on him, and Michael knew that it was likely the kid was wondering if he would have lasted that long, how it could have been him lying insensible on the stretcher, not Billy.

Casey, on the other hand, was steadfast. He sat down next to the stretcher and dared anyone to make him move. When the medic made friendly chitchat, Casey glowered. When the doctor checked Billy mid-flight, he mused that Billy was lucky to be alive. Casey’s response had been hard and fast, “Yes, tortured by almost sub-human radicals for three months seems very lucky. Next time they want someone, I’ll let them know you volunteer.” Which had been the end of conversation on the way home.

Billy himself took it without comment or response. Michael considered this for the best; the flight was long and there was no sense in Billy being laid up and conscious. He hated being confined, and the stretcher would have driven him crazy. Michael could almost hear him complain about it, “Man was made to move, not sit idly by! Maybe just a quick jaunt up to the cockpit, yeah? See the view from up there?”

And Billy could have pulled it off, too. His charms worked on everyone, man or woman, regardless of age or background.

The thought made Michael smile.

In reality, though, Billy laid there. They let him lay on his back for the first leg, but turned him on his side, gently arranging his legs with a pillow in between, resting his arms in front of him, mindful of the leads and IVs still attached to his body. Part way through, Billy opened his eyes, but they remained sightless and vacant, staring off at a place above Michael’s shoulder.

Catatonic, the doctor had said. Billy was catatonic.

His pupils had a normal response to light, but he did not reply to any command or stimulus. Short of pain, which only made Billy’s flaccid limbs twitch briefly, there was no indication that Billy was even aware of the outside world. The doctor told them this was mostly a psychological condition, probably brought about by the level of trauma he endured, that the human body could only take so much before it just shuts down. In this, catatonia was a defense mechanism, to protect Billy’s psyche from the outside world.

There was logic to this, and it wasn’t like Michael knew it was without precedence. He’d seen the prison where Billy’d been kept. He’d felt Billy’s body -- brittle and light -- in his arms. He’d mentally marked every bruise, welt and cut on Billy’s skin, studying every x-ray to chart the bones that had been broken and rebroken, time and again.

Billy had been beaten and burned, whipped and electrocuted. He could imagine the rest: sleep deprivation, waterboarding, sensory deprivation, starvation. And the mind games on top of all that, creating a dependence, instilling pervasive helplessness, stripping the sense of self until there was nothing left at all.

Until catatonia was all that made sense.

But they’d found Billy. They’d rescued him. Now Billy could regain his independence, renew his self control, refind himself. They just had to get him home.

Michael took a breath, watching as Billy stared. Rick kept pacing; Casey didn’t move. They were all relieved when Billy’s eyes closed for no reason twenty minutes later.

Things would be better when they landed, Michael told himself. So much better.

-o-

The return wasn’t triumphant, but it was like a breath of fresh air. From the airfield, Billy was taken by ambulance to the hospital. It was Michael’s inclination to go with him, but as they situated him on the ambulance, his glassy blue eyes opened, staring distantly at nothing, and Michael figured that being team leader meant taking care of all his team, not just Billy.

As the ambulance pulled out, it was clear that the others really needed him, too. Rick watched, his forlorn face too young. Casey’s expression was a mix of rage and frustration.

Michael tried to smile. “Home sweet home, huh?” he said.

“I thought we might never get here,” Rick admitted.

“We’ve done what we needed to do,” Casey said, watching while the paramedics closed the door and they couldn’t see Billy anymore. “The rest is up to him.”

“Just give it time,” Michael said, hoping to console them both. “Go home, clean up, get settled. We’ll meet back up at the hospital in the morning to see how Billy’s faring with the move.”

A small smile quirked Rick’s lips. “He’ll prefer the American nurses at least,” he said. “He’s more likely to wake up for that alone.”

“He is an insufferable flirt,” Casey said. 

“He’d say it’s all part of his charm,” Michael added. “A part of the whole Billy Collins package.”

They were smiling, but the moment lapsed. Rick shifted on his feet. Casey’s smile settled into a scowl and Michael looked down the tarmac, where the ambulance was long gone and they were alone.

Home sweet home, indeed.

-o-

Rick and Casey protested, but Michael eventually persuaded them to go home for the night instead of following Billy to the hospital. They were stubborn, but Michael had a trump card that he played readily when needed. How could they be there for Billy when they were jetlagged and barely conscious themselves?

It was partially true -- as most of Michael’s lines were -- and Michael waited until both of them took off, watching each one long enough to see that they were actually going home. From there, he checked his watch. If he’d timed this right...

A car pulled up.

Michael grinned opening the door and sitting down. “Good timing.”

Fay rolled her eyes from the driver’s seat. “I was married to you,” she said with an air of exasperation, but he could still hear her concern. “I picked up a few things.”

“You’d like to blame it on me,” he said.

She did her best not to smile as she put the car into gear. “I’m just glad you’re home,” she said. She hesitated. “We all are. Blanke’s been pining and Higgins has been anxious.”

“Recovery’s been a bit more complicated than we might have liked,” Michael admitted as Fay pulled out of the parking lot.

She glanced at him. “How is Billy anyway?”

Michael sighed. It was a question he would be fielding often now, and one he dreaded. Not because of the inherent weakness assumed but because Billy wouldn’t want the pity. Billy didn’t need the pity.

“He’s doing a lot better,” Michael said, and it was the truth, even if a creative interpretation. “All signs of infection are gone, and the doctor over there sounded pretty optimistic about the rest of the damage to his hands and jaw.”

Fay nodded, eyes glancing at him. “Is he--” she tried but cut herself off. She wet her lips. “Has he said anything yet?”

“No,” Michael replied. “They’ll get a special Agency psychiatrist to work with him here to sort through the trauma. But it’s Billy. He doesn’t know how to be quiet for too long. I figure we should enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.”

Fay smiled faintly but it faded quickly. When she glanced at him again, her brown eyes were careful and sympathetic. “Just remember he’s been through a lot.”

Michael stiffened. “I know,” he said. “I was the one who pulled him out of that prison half-alive. I was the one who talked to the doctor when he was clinging to life. I know better than anyone what he’s been through.”

When he finished, his voice was sharp, cutting briskly through the air.

Fay didn’t flinch, though. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t mad at her. She was also one of the few people in this world who wouldn’t back down from him. “I’m just wondering if you’ve prepared yourself for the possibility--”

Michael held up his hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Just don’t.”

She looked at him, her face twisted in protest. “I’m just saying--”

“You’re just saying that maybe Billy can’t come back,” he said. “That maybe those sons of bitches broke him. That maybe the Billy who I have come to know, who I’ve come to rely on, who I trust with my life, isn’t there anymore. But he is. I know Billy. He’s been through hell but we got him back, Fay. We got him back, we brought him in out of the cold. And we’ll bring him out of the dark, too. Whatever it takes.”

The end of his words started to hitch with something akin to desperation. Fay had to notice because she was Fay and he was Michael, but that was also why she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she nodded. When she looked his way again, she was smiling. “I know,” she said. She smiled. “I guess I better warn the nurses and doctors in advance about his tactics. He can be quite creative when he needs to be.”

As Michael grinned in reply, he tried not to notice how much it hurt, how he had the sneaking suspicion that Fay was telling him what he wanted to hear, what he needed to believe.

Then again, Michael was a paranoid bastard, through and through.

Fay moved to change lanes, but Michael shook his head. “No, go through.”

She frowned. “But the house--”

Michael gave her a look. “I’m not going to the house.”

“But I know you told the guys to go home,” she said.

Michael just stared.

She sighed. “Right,” she said. “Do as I say, not as I do. Classic Michael Dorset.”

“Billy shouldn’t be alone,” Michael protested. “He’s been through too much. He needs his team.”

Fay eyed him skeptically but nodded. Looking back on the road, she shrugged. “Okay,” she said, in ready agreement. “Hospital it is.”

-o-

Billy’s room was more comfortable here, with more amenities and a more comfortable bed. It was still private, but in a secluded ward. Billy would like it, as much as he would like any hospital room. There was a TV with cable and a whole library of books down the hall. There’d be plenty to do when he really woke up.

Casey and Rick would pitch a fit when they found out Michael had gone straight to the hospital, but after living for three months with Billy missing, Michael could handle their ire. There was nothing they could say or do to him that would be worse than what he already felt.

Which was the point. Billy had been his responsibility from the beginning. Michael had failed in that duty, and he had to make it up to all of them. Because Rick was struggling to make sense of what had happened and Casey was barely holding back his rage and Billy was...well, Billy was going to be okay.

Michael owed this to all of them, no matter what they thought about it.

If Casey and Rick were taking this transition hard, Billy at least seemed to be acclimating just fine. Or, as fine as he could, all things considered. His vitals were stable and he showed no visible change. The trip hadn’t hindered his recovery, but when Michael visited, his eyes were still open, staring past Michael at some indefinable point behind him.

Responsibility or not, when the doctor came down to meet him, Michael was somewhat relieved for something to do.

Billy’s new doctor was younger, more energetic and more memorable than the matronly one back in Germany. He talked with certain enthusiasm, hands moving to punctuate his points.

“I’ve been quite fascinated by Mr. Collins’ file,” he said, nodding vigorously as he explained the prognosis and plan of attack to Michael. “They’ve done good work overseas, but I’ll be glad that we can do the fine tuning here. You’re fortunate that we have some of the most skilled surgeons on staff.”

It was bluster, of course, but Michael could only count the enthusiasm in Billy’s favor. This wasn’t a man who liked to fail or who made a habit of it. That kind of optimism was what Billy needed.

“So what’s the plan?” Michael asked.

The doctor’s face went serious. “We have several major areas of concern,” he said. “Now that his internal organs seem to be fully recovered from the worst of the malnutrition, we’re going to need to work on building up his body mass and starting him on some kind of physical therapy to keep his muscles from atrophying.”

“How can he do therapy when he’s--” Michael tried to find a way to say it that didn’t sound wrong. “--like this.”

“For now, we’ll focus on exercising the muscles for him,” the doctor explained. “Simple movements that should be enough to prevent further deterioration. We’re already looking to ramp up his nutrition now that his remaining kidney seems to be fully functional. At this point, we’ve got to look for slow but steady weight gain.”

Michael nodded along. “What about the rest?”

The doctor took a breath, the light of excitement in his eyes again. “Yes, and that’s where it gets interesting,” he said. “The two biggest issues are his hands and his jaw. Both of those areas were severely damaged and without immediate treatment, we’ve seen incorrect healing which has led to impairment at the moment. I’ll be calling in an orthopedic surgeon and oral surgeon to consult on the best ways to handle those issues.”

“But they can be fixed,” Michael pressed. He liked details -- he lived and died by details --but for once, he just wanted the bigger picture. When Billy was a mess of details, Michael _needed_ the bigger picture.

“I have every reason to be optimistic,” the doctor said without hesitation. “It won’t be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I believe we can put Mr. Collins back together. Not quite as good as new, but over time, I see no long term physical impairments.”

The tension unfurled in Michael’s chest, and the next breath he took tasted palpably of relief. Still, he glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Billy, still staring on his bed. Looking back at the doctor, he pressed his lips together. “And what about--” he tried to explain.

The doctor follow his gaze, nodding his understanding. “I understand the psychiatrist will be here soon to give his mental state a proper assessment,” he said. “None of this will be easy, but Billy has a lot going for him. He can’t do it alone--”

“He doesn’t need to,” Michael said, looking back over his shoulder at Billy, feeling his hope buoy and his determination settle. “Not even a little.”

-o-

Michael wasn’t sure what strings Fay pulled, but when Michael camped out on the couch in Billy’s room, no one looked twice. In fact, one of the nurses told him that there were extra pillows and a blanket in the cabinet by the bed. Fay’s powers of persuasion aside, Michael strongly suspected that there might be some psychological benefit to having patients in Billy’s condition surrounded by people who cared about him. Michael wasn’t well versed on catatonia, but if there was a mental barrier keeping Billy at bay, then it would be one of his teammates to break him out of it.

This not only worked in Michael’s advantage -- if he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, then he could better satiate his paranoid impulses -- but in Billy’s, too. It was reassuring to see the doctors recognize this.

Still, sleeping on the couch wasn’t overly comfortable, and Michael was more awake than asleep when Casey showed up early the next morning.

“I figured you be here,” Casey said, glaring at Michael. He was dressed in a suit and tie, hair neatly combed and face freshly shaven. Casey hadn’t let personal habits slide quite as much as Rick and Michael had, but seeing him back in proper work attire was still a bit of a jolt. “Lying bastard.”

Michael didn’t try to deny it. “And you went home anyway.”

Casey quirked an eyebrow, glancing fleeting toward Billy. The Scot had woken up a while ago after the nurse came in to roll him to his side, and now he was staring blankly toward the counter on the wall. “How is he?” Casey finally asked, sounding almost reluctant.

Michael drew a breath, rolling his shoulders a little to work the kinks out. It was mostly a lost cause. “Sounds like they’ve got an aggressive treatment plan,” he said. 

“But no change?” Casey asked, staying notably out of view from Billy’s unseeing stare.

Michael could hear the tendrils of disappointment. “You know Billy,” Michael said. “Always does things in his own time.

Just then, the door opened. Rick was carrying a potted plant but he stopped short when he saw Michael and Casey. At first, there was surprise. Then, when he saw Michael’s inevitable bed head, there was betrayal. “You stayed the night,” he said.

“Good to see your spy sense haven’t been dulled by a month in Germany,” Casey quipped.

Rick was not amused. He was donning a dress shirt and a jacket, but he seemed to have foregone the tie for now. His face was also shaven clean, renewing his youthful appearance. His indignation only enhanced that. “What about all that crap last night? About going home and taking care of ourselves?”

Michael shrugged. “I would think by now I wouldn’t have to apologize for being a paranoid bastard,” he said.

Rick’s frown deepened, but he had no response. Instead, he shifted on his feet, looking uneasily toward Billy. “He’s doing okay?”

“I had a good talk with his primary doctor last night,” Michael assured him. “Things are about as good as we could expect.”

Whereas Casey seemed content without the details, Rick seemed ready for more. The question was forming on his lips, when Michael inclined his head. 

“A plant?” Michael asked, interrupting the conversation before it could happen.

Sheepish, Rick glanced down. It was a fern in a simple pot. He shrugged. “Hospital rooms are so bland,” he said. His eyes wandered to Billy. “Billy’s never bland.”

“That’s sweet,” Casey said. “Stupidly sentimental, but sweet all the same.”

Rick actually looked hurt, and Casey’s expression was more scathing than usual.

Michael decided to intervene. “It’s the right idea,” he said. “You’ll have to water it, though. Billy would kill it even if he weren’t stuck in a hospital bed.”

The joke had the intended effect, and Rick smiled just enough. He moved toward the bed, scooting the plant on and hesitating by Billy’s side. He watched for a long moment, as if hoping for some kind of change.

There wasn’t one, though. Billy stayed still, and an uncomfortable silence filled the air. The tension mounted with the unspoken words. Casey’s frustration, Rick’s fears. It was all Michael could do to keep them all together.

It was also the one responsibility left that mattered.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward, reaching for his bag. “I just need to use the bathroom and change into something,” he said.

“You can go home,” Rick offered. “I think Casey and I can take a turn.”

Casey noticeably said nothing.

Michael shook his head. “No time,” he said. “Not if we’re all going to go to work.”

There was no hint of surprise on Casey’s face, but Rick’s expression screwed up in confusion. “But, shouldn’t one of us –”

“He’s catatonic,” Casey interjected. “One of the few advantages is that he won’t actually miss us if we’re gone.”

It was a bit more blunt than Michael would have put it, but the point stood nonetheless. “Higgins has been riding my ass for a week now to get back,” he said. 

“I don’t care about Higgins,” Rick said immediately.

The loyalty was laudable. Hell, Michael understood it. Billy brought that out in people, even when they didn’t want to admit it. “Then care about the intel,” Michael said. “The situation in Morovia isn’t getting better and we’re the only team that’s been in the area at all.” He looked toward Billy, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “It’s another way we can help Billy, to stop the people who did this to him.”

Rick looked at Billy, too, and Michael knew his point was made.

“Besides,” Michael said, moving forward and edging around Casey. “It’s just for the day. Maybe he’ll even be awake by the time we get back now that he has a plant to keep him company.”

Casey rolled his eyes, but Rick smirked. Over on the bed, Billy closed his eyes as Michael got ready for work.

-o-

Going back to work was weird.

Mostly, nothing had changed. The same guards worked at the security checkpoint and all the cars were parked in the same but undesignated spaces. Michael pulled his Taurus into the lot and tried not to think about Billy back in the hospital. Still, by this time, he would have had his morning feeding and probably would have gotten rolled onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling.

And here Michael was, back at work.

This time, he was the last one there. When he got in the office, Casey was already hunched over his desk, clicking steadily at his mouse with unparalleled concentration. Rick was in his chair, sorting helplessly through the files on his desk. He’d put his tie on but when Michael came in, he looked up with an expression just shy of desperation.

Michael knew how he felt. Fortunately, he also knew how to hide it better.

Easily, he strode over, refusing to dwell on the stack of files that had accumulated in his absence. Pushing it aside, he looked for his planner and his pen. “Everybody ready to jump back into the frying pan?”

Casey grunted. “My entire body feels sluggish from the time off.”

Rick was more skittish, but he had enough self awareness not to admit his doubt. Instead, he shrugged feebly.

That was close enough for Michael. Not that they really had any choice. The job was the job, and now that they were here, Michael couldn’t ignore that. “Good,” he said. “Because Higgins wants to see us.”

Casey tweaked an eyebrow curiously. Rick blinked.

Michael moved toward the door. “Now,” he said, filing out of the office and trusting his teammates well enough to follow.

-o-

The fact that Higgins didn’t keep them waiting said more than Michael would admit. Higgins wasn’t above keeping them waiting just to prove he could, but more often than not, he was just busy. There were always missions, each more pressing than the next, and Michael never begrudged the man his busy schedule.

Today when they arrived, they were ushered quickly in.

Behind his desk, Higgins seemed anxious. “It’s good to have you all back,” he said, sounding surprisingly earnest. “I take it Operative Collins has been settled into his new accommodations?”

Michael had to give it to the old man; he could be diplomatic when he wanted to be. “They’re going to start scheduling his ongoing treatments,” Michael reported. 

“That’s good,” Higgins said. “I’m glad to hear that his recovery has moved along successfully so far.”

Michael generally wasn’t one to accept praise or accolades, especially from Higgins and the bureaucracy he represented. But he wouldn’t deny well wishes for Billy -- from Higgins or anyone else. “Thank you, sir,” he said as politely as he could.

Higgins took a breath then, clearly gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, he voice was measured, his words careful. “I just want you to know that the Agency will fully support Operative Collins throughout his recovery. Whatever he needs, we will provide it, no questions asked. What he gave in the name of this country is noble, and it is a sacrifice we will make every effort to honor.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” Michael said. “I’ll let him say thank you when he’s able, though.”

The implication was clear. If Higgins doubted it, he knew better than to let it show. Instead, he took another breath. “All that said, we do need to discuss the situation in Morovia.”

Everyone seemed to stiffen and the air seemed rife with the tension. Michael forced a smile. “I’ve been watching a little,” he said. “Looks like they’re trying a democracy.”

“A shaky one, though,” Higgins confirmed. “The sudden death meant there was no succession plan in place. Right now it’s a bit of a political free for all.”

“Understandably,” Michael said. Then he asked the question that mattered. “And what do you want us to do?”

Higgins gauged him, and then spoke plainly. “We’d like to get eyes back in the country,” he said. 

Next to Michael, Rick sat up straight, shaking his head. “We just got back,” he said. “And we sort of have other things to think about.”

Michael edged forward, trying to slow Rick down. He kept his eyes on Higgins, though. “Morovia is a hornet’s nest,” he said. “We can tell you everything we know, but I don’t think we’re ready for a mission just yet.”

Higgins did not look surprised. “Of course not,” he said. “But we do need to start preparing for the possibility of a team on the ground. I just wanted to be sure that you were all up for the task of disseminating what you gleaned from your last mission and sorting through what else we’ve managed to gather. I know that this is emotionally trying--”

“Emotions are irrelevant,” Casey said flatly. “Worldwide security seems more worthwhile.”

Higgins inclined his head.

Michael offered a smile. “We’re on it,” he said.

That was all Higgins wanted to hear. He nodded. “Very good, then,” he said. “I’ll have Ms. Carson send down the files.”

Michael got to his feet, Casey falling in tandem. Rick was more reluctant but followed suit as they made their way to the door.

Before they left, Higgins called, “For what it’s worth, I really do hope for the best. Please pass along my best wishes to Operative Collins.”

This time, Michael’s smile was small but real. He nodded. “I will,” he promised, thankful that there was at least one promise today that he could manage to keep.

-o-

They didn’t make it two feet before Rick said, “We’re not doing it.”

Michael did his best to be neutral. “Do what?” he asked. 

“We’re not going on a mission,” Rick said, more insistent now.

Michael led them, their three steps in tandem, but the pace feeling off. “Higgins didn’t ask us to go on a mission,” he said.

“We all know that’s what he wants,” Rick said. “That’s why he wants us on the intel. So we’ll have to go when a mission comes up.”

“We haven’t agreed to anything like that,” Michael said, as staunchly as he could.

“Not that it doesn’t have merit,” Casey added.

Michael couldn’t say the comment surprised him or even that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Still, Rick made a small noise of derision, twisting his head to glare at Casey around Michael as they walked. “I don’t care if it has merit,” Rick said. “We’re not doing it.”

“We’re spies, Martinez, not nursemaids,” Casey countered gruffly.

Rick started to gape. “Billy’s not even out of the _hospital_.”

“He’s also not even awake,” Casey said.

Rick pulled up short, stopping abruptly in the hall and facing Casey in earnest. “He needs us,” he said. “We’re the ones who--” His voice hitched, and a few people slowed in the halls, glancing their way. Rick swallowed, drawing his voice down and stepping closer to Casey. “We left him there for three months. He needs us.”

“He needs quality psychiatric help,” Casey said. “I want him to get better just as much as you do, but sitting around thinking happy thoughts isn’t going to do it.”

“So, what?” Rick asked. “We just leave him there? Go about our jobs and forget the fact that Billy’s not here?”

“No, we go about our jobs because Billy’s not here,” Casey said. “We left him there too long. We should punish those responsible.”

Michael listened carefully, waiting for his moment to intervene. These were things that needed to be said, things he’d been suspecting but that they all needed to admit.

Rick hardened himself, shaking his head defiantly. “Any other team in the Agency can do that,” he said. “But we’re the only ones who can bring Billy back. He’d do it for us. He _has_ done it for us. When I was in that van, bleeding out, he never stopped being there. Never stopped talking, telling stories, making me believe it was okay. He never even let me consider letting go.”

“You were suffering from blood loss,” Casey said. “Billy’s lost in his own mind. There’s a difference.”

“Not for teammates,” Rick said.

It was an impasse. It was also Michael’s cue. “You’re both right,” he said. “We can only do so much for Billy, as much as we’d like to think otherwise. That’s why we’ll split our time. Work here on possible leads in Morovia and with Billy in the hospital until he comes back around. Who knows, by the time something solidifies over there, maybe Billy will be awake to give his blessing.”

Rick seemed vaguely mollified, and Casey relaxed just slightly.

“I know Billy,” Michael continued. “Chances are he’s just making us work for it.”

The lightness of the statement had its intended effect. Rick’s gaze softened and he looked down. “We did take three months.”

Casey sighed. “I suppose I can humor his ongoing demands for attention a bit longer,” he said.

It was an uneasy compromise, but it was the closest thing they had.

As they walked back to the office, Michael tried not to think that it might be the only thing they had.

-o-

Michael spent a lot of time in those next few days just watching.

He watched Billy, who lay in whatever position he’d been left in, staring emptily at the wall or ceiling, whichever was in front of him, only occasionally blinking or swallowing out of reflex. 

He watched the doctor and the nurses as they came and went, critically eyeing them as they went about their duties, as if daring them to show anything less that the utmost care and attention to their patient.

He watched the news, though he couldn’t bring himself to care as passionately as he typically did about what was going on in countries half way across the globe. If caring was a finite resource, then he’d expended his supply here in Billy’s hospital room. When a news special about the revolution in Morovia came on CNN, he barely spared a second look at the grainy photos of the fighting in the streets. If he wanted to know how hellish Morovia could be, he didn’t need to look at the news. He had a prime example lying listless in the bed beside him.

But he also watched his team. Because even if Billy was the one who’d been injured the most, he couldn’t forget that his other men were still hurting. As team leader, they were all his responsibility. He couldn’t let himself forget that. 

Some days, he’d arrive at the hospital to find Rick’s silver Nissan already in the visitor lot. He’d park his old Taurus beside it, but would linger in the hallway outside Billy’s room for a time before entering, just watching.

He watched Rick sit and talk animatedly, waving his hands around to illustrate his point, or to punctuate the punchline of a particular tale. He told stories – some from his childhood, his life, and others of the exploits of the ODS that Billy had been there for – recounting them with a storytelling flair that would have made the Scotsman proud, if he’d shown any signs of hearing. One day Michael arrived to find that Rick had brought in a whole box of pictures and was holding them each in front of Billy’s dead gaze in turn, explaining the complicated branching and intertwining of the Martinez family tree with old polaroids as a guide. 

Rick had looked up to see Michael standing in the door, and his cheeks had flushed. “I know, I know, no photos, they’re compromising –”

Michael shrugged. “Just don’t leave any behind when you go.”

“I mean, if he’s in there, he’s got to be bored out of his mind, right?” Rick asked, sheepishly lowering a photo of some cousin or other.

“I’m sure that your family’s internal politics are positively riveting to him, Martinez,” was Michael’s dry response. He tempered it with a thin smile, though; Rick looked exhausted – there were dark circles under his eyes and he was wearing the same clothes he’d been in the night before. But when he spoke to Billy, he somehow managed to retain a boundless enthusiasm for whatever he was saying, as if he were trying to make up for Billy’s usual boyish exuberance by supplying enough for the both of them. “Tell him that when he snaps out of it, there’ll be a quiz.”

Rick chuckled at that. “That’d be cruel. Heck, I need the photos just so I can keep it all straight.”

Later, Rick had placed all the photos and mementoes carefully back into the shoebox they’d arrived in, nodding to Michael as he made his way out.

But when Michael took up post next to Billy in Rick’s vacated seat, he noticed one picture remained: a slightly grainy photo printed from a camera phone, of Rick Martinez holding his pistol out at the barrel of a tank. He snorted, and made to pocket the snapshot, but paused and ended up propping the photo up against the vase of flowers that Adele had dropped off the day before. 

“I won’t deprive you of your photographic masterpiece, buddy,” he muttered down at Billy. Who said nothing.

Then with a sigh, Michael leaned back in the chair and settled down to watch the clock.

-o-

The first week back, everyone made the rounds. After his psych eval, the psychiatrist had cleared Billy for visitors, saying it could only help trigger him back into the real world. People they hardly knew stopped by, looking apologetic and curious, asking how Billy was. They just wanted to see how things were going, to say they were thinking of them all.

Casey didn’t spare them even a second look. Rick seemed to resent their intrusion, as if Billy’s progress was their concern only. 

Michael smiled and said Billy was doing just fine. Then he thanked them as they went on their way.

“You’re a liar,” Casey said, shaking his head in disgust as the latest well wisher left.

“They mean well,” Rick said finally, although he seemed almost pained by the admission.

“They’re lemmings looking for the latest water cooler gossip,” Casey said. 

“It could be any of us,” Rick said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael told them both, cutting the argument short. He’d heard this before, every day in fact, and Michael was tired of it. 

Besides, sometimes Michael wondered who he was lying to the most.

-o-

“They’re going to have to rebreak his hands,” Michael announced one day as they were milling around the water cooler, having just chased Blanke off to get the break room to themselves. 

Martinez went pale. “They’re what?”

Michael pursed his lips for a moment. “The breaks weren’t clean, and they healed wrong. They’re going to have to break them again to reset them properly. The longer they wait, the less likely he is to recover any mobility in his hands.”

Casey sniffed. “How do they even know how much mobility he has? It’s not like he’ll squeeze a ball if they ask him to.”

Rick’s expression was one of growing distress. “But, after all he’s been through –”

“They’ll use an anesthetic this time, Martinez, relax,” Michael assured him, though he’d had the same visceral reaction when talking to the doctor earlier that day. The idea of Billy having to be broken down even further, even if it was to facilitate his recovery, didn’t sit well with him. But neither did the idea of Billy never regaining the use of his fingers. Billy was always holding things, grabbing things, fiddling with things – the Scot had a habit of rifling through whatever was within reach. It was just something Billy did. And for that, he’d need to have his hands. “The reconstructive surgery is scheduled. They’d run a bunch of x-rays, so they’re confident they can repair the damage even without Billy’s verbal contribution. And apparently his fingernails are starting to grow back in.” 

He added that last bit as an attempt to lighten the conversation, even though it wasn’t terribly relevant. But the mention of Billy’s missing nails apparently had the reverse effect, as Rick blanched even further. “Excuse me,” the younger operative murmured, heading for the door.

Casey watched him go and shook his head. “And here I thought Collins was the squeamish one.” He took a sip of his coffee. “They think they’re going to fix it all in one surgery?”

Michael grimaced. “No. There will probably be a couple. Not to mention physical therapy. But I imagine you can help him with that, when the time comes. He’ll need a cruel taskmaster to keep him from goofing off.”

Casey smiled thinly. “So glad my particular skill sets are appreciated.”

“They’ll be put to good use once he’s on the mend,” Michael assured him, sipping his own coffee. “Soon enough.”

-o-

“It’s creepy,” Malick muttered one day in the hospital cafeteria.

“Come again?” Michael poured a packet of sweetener into a cup of tea that would probably go cold before he got around to drinking it. He wasn’t thirsty, or hungry, but being in the cafeteria gave him something to do other than hover while the nurses tended to Billy.

“You know what I mean,” Casey grumbled, stabbing at a plate of meatloaf he’d managed to thoroughly mutilate, but hadn’t yet taken a bite of that Michael had seen. “The lights being on but nobody home.”

Michael sighed. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s doing it just to freak you out, Malick.”

Casey snorted. “I swear, if one day he just rolls over, winks at me and says ‘Gotcha,’ after all this, I’m gonna kick his ass all the way back to Scotland,” he growled, attacking the remains of his meatloaf with fresh fervor.

The image brought a faint smile to Michael’s lips. “That’d be a pretty funny sight,” he admitted, secretly wishing it would come true; that Billy would just snap out of it one day and everything would be back to normal.

He caught a brief glimpse of a smile on Malick’s face, just for a moment, and then it vanished again as the other operative put his fork down, having apparently finished waging war against his lunch. “It gives me the willies, though.”

Michael sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” The way Billy just lay there, utterly still, no sign of life other than the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink – that blank and glassy stare made him look more dead than he’d seemed while unconscious. And while it faintly unsettled Michael, it was growing clear that Casey was downright unnerved. “He’ll snap out of it, though. Sooner or later.” 

Casey sniffed, pushing his tray away. “I’d rather it’d be sooner, thank you very much.” He stood and made to leave, hesitated, then grabbed the small plastic tin of jello from his tray before heading back toward the elevator bank.

Michael stared down at his tea, which had already begun to cool through the styrofoam. “You and me both.”

-o- 

Later that day, after Michael had made a detour back to the office to contend with some necessary paperwork that had piled up in his absence, he returned to the hospital to check up on Billy. 

There were sounds that he had come to associate with the hospital; the whirring of the sterile air conditioning; the distorted and tinny voices over the PA, the occasional beeping of machinery and now and then, in the distance, frantic voices and a jarring alarm. But even through all those noises, there was a kind of quiet – like the muffled, deadening effect of a snowstorm, that sucked the sound right out of the air, leaving everything muted.

But today, as he walked down the hall to Billy’s room, Michael heard something different. Something that made him stop in his tracks and blink in confusion.

Someone was _singing._

“Take me hoooooome, country roads....”

Michael slowed his approach, listening carefully to the clear baritone that echoed down the empty hallway –

“– to the place, I belong –”

– he knew that voice. Though in this context, it took him a minute to recognize it –

“– West Virginia, Mountain mama –”

– as Casey. He arrived at the door to Billy’s room but didn’t cross the threshold yet, choosing instead to linger and peer in through the open crack and the marbled glass of the window as Malick sat in the chair beside Billy’s bed and crooned.

“I hear her voice in the morning hour as she calls me, radio reminds me of my home far away –”

And it was all Michael could do not to hum along, though he found his fingers beginning to tap out the beat against his leg.

“– driving down the road I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday, yester....” Malick broke off and sighed. “I know you’re there, Michael.”

He pushed the door open a bit more and leaned in. “Hey, don’t let me interrupt.”

“Too late.” Malick stood and stretched. “I don’t make a habit of performing for audiences.” He cast a sideways glance at Billy, who was staring somewhere beyond the wall. “At least, not to any who are capable of complaining about it.”

“I’m sure he enjoyed it,” Michael offered quietly.

Malick sniffed. “Probably has no idea who John Denver is. And besides, it wasn’t for him, it was for me. He’s stressing me out, and there’s no radio. Also, my iPod battery died.” His shoulders slumped. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I need to go home and take a shower.”

And as Malick walked away from him for the second time that day, Michael settled into the still-warm chair to watch Billy. After a few moments, he began to hum.

-o-

Billy went in and out of surgery multiple times over the course of the next week. Michael made sure to be there every time he emerged from the OR. Admittedly, none of these surgeries were as critical or life-threatening as those he’d undergone in Germany – there was no organ failure, little risk that he’d code the minute he hit the table this time around. But it was still surgery, and it was still important, and Michael felt the need to oversee it all. There was the first operation on his hands. And then the second operation on his hands. They realigned his nose so it’d be less crooked, though Michael had a feeling that Billy’s profile would never be exactly the same as it had been previously. There was tendon surgery for Billy’s shoulder, whose state had made the orthopedic surgeon simply shake his head in mortified awe during the surgical consult. And finally they operated on Billy’s jaw, which had, according to the x-rays, been brutally shattered at some point and had healed poorly.

Afterwards, they’d had to wire his mandible closed in order for it to heal properly. Michael found himself reflecting that, in this particular case, it was perhaps a mercy that Billy wasn’t really all there. He could only imagine the indignation a conscious and alert Billy would have reacted with when faced with the prospect of neither eating nor speaking until the breaks healed. 

“Really, there’s three tiers of surgeries he’ll require,” the doctor had explained to Michael. “The really important, life-saving ones, he got with the doctors in Germany. And I have to admit, they didn’t do a half-bad job. What we’re doing now are the surgeries he’ll need to retain most of his functioning – eating, moving, using his hands and arms, that sort of thing. He’s going to need a pretty strict physical therapy regimen when he comes back around in order for it to do the most good.”

“The third tier?” Michael had queried.

The doctor shrugged. “That’s mostly going to be the cosmetic stuff. Some sophisticated dentistry to replace the missing teeth, some scar tissue removal... he doesn’t really need it, but it’s recommended for quality of life–”

“He needs it,” Michael quickly butted in. Scars were a spy’s enemy. Anything unique or distinguishing could be compromising. If Billy was going to be field-worthy, he’d need to be nondescript in addition to being hale and hearty. 

The doctor paused, then nodded. “We’ll wait and see. Once he’s through this round of surgeries and makes progress, we’ll look into scheduling those procedures.”

Michael bit back his protest that they should schedule them now, pursing his lips and nodding. “Sounds good.”

The doctor offered up a brief smile. “Hey, physically, he’s bouncing back great.”

Michael faked a smile in return until the doctor turned and left.  
 _  
Physically.  
_  
-o-

Time moved slowly, and when two months had passed since they’d pulled Billy out of Morovia, Michael could hardly believe it. Because with all that time, not much had actually changed. Billy still stared at walls, and the ODS still held vigil at his bedside, watching and waiting and hoping.

Rick brought photos and memorabilia. Casey brought his iPod, and the occasional serenade.

Michael brought books.

Billy’s books, specifically. He’d pilfered a few of Collins’ paperbacks from the neglected motel room and had brought them in the hospital in his briefcase. They were as much for his entertainment as for Billy’s (probably moreso), but he liked to think that maybe Martinez was right and part of Billy was kicking around inside there banging on the walls of his mind in boredom. 

And if anything was likely to get through to Billy in this state, it had to be Shakespeare.

Once or twice Billy had bemoaned the loss of his old collection of books prior to his deportation. Michael could only hope that those allegedly precious volumes had been less abused than the library in Billy’s motel. He had a hard time identifying some of them with the covers all but gone, the spines all cracked and the glue beginning to flake. Most people read books. Billy apparently _devoured_ them, until all that was left was a kind of paperback carnage. Michael had recovered some of the more intact copies, then had decided to grab a few of the more battered survivors as well, since they’d been quite literally loved to death.

Henry V was one of the latter category. The book automatically fell open to one page that was so dog-eared and covered in pencil underlines that Michael had to peer through his reading glasses just to make out the words. He wouldn’t be surprised if Billy knew them by heart. 

He cleared his throat, and began to read aloud:

“What's he that wishes so?  
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;  
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow  
To do our country loss...”

It was stupid, the way his eyes kept glancing up from the words on the page to Billy’s face, hoping against logic and reason that he might catch some flicker of recognition, of animation. But it was hard to stop.

“No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.  
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour  
As one man more methinks would share from me  
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!”

He paused to clear his throat. The old-timey speech felt foreign on his tongue, but the ideas were oddly familiar. _I would not lose so great an honor..._ He’d lost Carson Simms, in more ways than one. He’s lost others. Michael had no desire to lose any more. 

“We would not die in that man's company  
That fears his fellowship to die with us.”

That was what a team was, wasn’t it? Men who’d die for each other, without flinching, without hesitation? Michael had watched Billy take a bullet for Casey. Casey in turn had been more than willing to fling himself against suicidal odds in order to help the ODS make their escape. And Michael knew that if faced with the grim choice...

He’d have swapped places with Billy.

He only wished now that he could. 

“He that shall live this day, and see old age,  
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,  
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'  
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,  
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' “

Billy would recover. He would. He had to. And when he did he’d show off his scars and brag and wink at Martinez making some half-lewd comment about how the ladies loved a man with scars – how it was all about the air of danger. The grisly mementos of his incarceration would become conversation pieces in the pub. 

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
Shall be my brother...”

Michael had been an only child. He knew Martinez had brothers. He’d once speculated that Casey might, though he wasn’t sure (the idea that Casey had family was someone an odd one). Whatever family Billy had possessed was long lost to him now, but in its stead he’d found a new family in the unlikeliest of places: the CIA. Because the ODS were a band of brothers. They fought, they joked, they risked life and limb for their country and for each other. 

Billy was his friend. Billy was his brother.

“And gentlemen in England now-a-bed  
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,  
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day,” he finished, gently folding the book back shut and placing it on the beside, next to Adele’s flowers, Rick’s photo, the potted plant, and a host of get well cards. 

Billy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t show any sign he’d heard a single word.

And still entrenched in Shakespearean prose, his thoughts caught up in the bloody and glorious tail of Henry V, Michael found himself thinking: _  
All hell shall stir for this._

-o-

Billy’s color returned. The hollows in his cheek started to fill. The bruises were gone and the worst of the cuts faded to vivid pink scars.

Life went on. Rick talked; Casey sang; Michael read. Billy opened his eyes but didn’t see, and each day passed the same as the last.

“He’s getting there,” Michael told people with a reassuring smile. But each time he said it felt more hollow than the last until the words were as empty as Billy’s unseeing blue eyes.

-o-

Higgins made no pretense this time; there was no chitchat. Michael had barely sat down when Higgins gave him the file.

Michael took it, scanning it quickly.

“They’re going ahead with elections in Morovia,” he said.

Michael took in the salient points, noting the increase in violence, the disbursement of arms, and the organization of fanatical militias. “Sounds pretty typical,” he said, flipping the page to look at the photos. Piles of bodies; bloodied protesters; headless corpses in the fields.

“The Narodny Dzida is backing a candidate,” Higgins said. 

“That’s unfortunately legal,” Michael said wryly, glancing over the growing list of human rights concerns, the varying parties vying for power.

“Yes, but the alarming rate at which his opposition is dying is not,” he said.

Michael sighed, closing the file. “We can’t stop a coup, even if we want to.”

“I agree,” Higgins said. “But I think we can help keep the remaining candidates alive if we have a team on the ground.”

Michael was already shaking his head. “This place is chaos,” he said. “And even if we keep some of them safe, there’s no clear indication that any candidate will have a majority.”

“Ensuring a competitive election is only half our priority,” Higgins said.

“You want to see how established Narodny Dzida is,” Michael surmised.

“We have to know if they’re a viable threat to the country or even the region,” he said. “Of all the groups, they’re the ones who would be a worst case scenario in power.”

Michael thought of Billy and his jaw tightening. “Send another team,” he said.

Higgins had clearly been expecting this response. “You’re the only team with enough background and the appropriate skill level to complete this mission.” 

Normally Michael would have relished just how painful it had to be for Higgins to disperse such praise on the ODS, and irony of his team being a first choice as opposed to a last resort. But things hadn’t been normal for a while now. “We’re down a man,” he said. “And if you haven’t forgotten, we may have somewhat of a conflict of interest.”

Higgins didn’t rise to Michael’s ire. Instead, he pressed his lips together, exuding a patience that he had surely needed to get this far in the CIA. “I know what I’m asking,” he said. “But you also know that I’m right.”

There was the rub: Higgins was right. Michael was a spy; he worked for the CIA. This job had cost him just about everything in his life. He’d forgone friendships and comfort; he’d let his marriage fall apart. Because the job came first. 

It was a bitter truth, a painful reality. As much as Michael had gone through to get Billy back, to forfeit the mission would be to make Billy’s sacrifice in vain.

At least, that was what he knew intellectually. Emotionally, he wasn’t sure it mattered. He wasn’t sure any mission, any intel, any thing, could ever justify what had happened to Billy. He wasn’t sure that there would be anything that made Billy’s condition worth it.

It wasn’t the first time emotion and rationality had fought in Michael’s mind. This was the first time, however, he’d ever really considered letting the emotion win.

Gathering a breath, he got to his feet. “I need some time,” he said.

A look of disappointment crossed Higgins face, but he let it pass. “Some time I can afford you,” he said. “But not too long.”

Michael inclined his head, not quite in gratitude but in mutual acceptance. As he walked out, though, he wondered if any amount of time would be long enough.

-o-

Rick and Casey were predictable.

“We can’t go,” Rick said, just as insistent as always. “Billy needs us.”

“Billy can’t roll over by himself,” Casey said. “He needs a full time nurse, which he has.”

Rick shook his head. “If anyone can get him back, it’s us.”

Casey looked at Rick, and Michael flinched in anticipation for the rebuttal. _Maybe no one can get him back at all._

Casey swallowed, though, closing his mouth and drawing his shoulders together. He looked at Michael. “Billy wouldn’t want us to sit on our asses while world terror proliferates,” he said. Then he glanced back to Rick. “You know I’m right.”

“And I’m right,” Rick said. “This isn’t about what Billy would want; this is about making sure Billy can come back enough to _tell_ us. _Himself_.” He looked steadily at Casey. “And you know _I’m_ right.”

Michael looked at Casey. Then he looked at Rick.

They were both right.

Yet, none of them were right enough to make Michael’s decision easy. And it was Michael’s decision, no matter how much he didn’t want it to be. He’d been the one to accept the first mission; he’d been the one who’d made the choice to come home without Billy. The problem with ultimate control was that it incurred ultimate responsibility. This was his choice. These were his consequences. That was how Michael had always made sure it had to be.

For the first time in Michael’s life, he really, truly wished that that wasn’t the case.

-o-

It wasn’t Casey’s pragmatism or Rick’s idealism that helped Michael make the choice. It wasn’t even Higgins or the job itself. Ultimately, the only person who helped him decide was Billy.

He often spent long evenings alone with Billy, reading books and getting updates from the nurses and doctors. This was the right thing to do, Michael knew. Billy had been a faithful member of his team; he’d saved Michael’s life more than once. More than that, he was Michael’s friend.

They never talked about it like that, but that was how it was. Men like them didn’t have friends, but ultimately, they had each other and that counted more than an obligatory title or social norm. Billy and Casey. Once upon a time, Carson was like that. Now, even Rick. Trust didn’t come easily for Michael, and once it was lost, it was almost impossible to get back.

It’d be easier if Billy had betrayed them in many ways; easier if he’d gone dirty like Carson had. Then walking away would be easier, it wouldn’t feel like he was ripping off part of himself. He’d left Billy behind back in Morovia, and Michael hadn’t been the same. Now, he had Billy back, but not in the way he wanted.

Not in any way that seemed to matter at all.

Billy was still lost, and now Michael was thinking about walking away. _Again._

Sitting there, that night Michael didn’t read. He didn’t talk to the doctors or nurses. He just watched Billy. Watched the steady rise and fall of his chest; eyed the bandages still on his damaged but healing hands. This wasn’t the same as Morovia. He wasn’t leaving Billy behind to some uncertain but horrible fate; he wasn’t leaving Billy behind to suffer, alone and abandoned. Billy was safe and secure and okay.

His listless body was turned on his back, eyes pointed at the ceiling. Michael counted the seconds between blinks, visually monitored his breathing rate, and suddenly understood the one thing that he hadn’t let himself admit all this time.

Casey thought Billy might be a lost cause. Rick believed he could will Billy back to life. But the truth was -- the cold, hard, horrible truth was -- that neither point of view was right. Billy could come back, that much was certain. Whatever he’d been through, Billy could recover. This was the man who’d been kicked out of his homeland and lost everything and still thrived. Michael had learned years ago never to underestimate Billy. After all, he’d survived three months of torture.

But there was nothing they could do to bring him back. Stories, songs, books: they could only do so much. The choice was Billy’s.

In the end, it was up to Billy.

Michael watched. Michael waited. 

Billy didn’t move.

Inching forward, Michael rested a hand on Billy’s forearm. “We’re ready when you are,” he said.

Billy breathed. He blinked. Once, twice. Then his eyes closed and didn’t open as his breathing evened out into sleep.

Michael’s stomach churned and his chest clenched. He removed his hand, smiling at the recumbent figure. “Okay,” he said, and got to his feet. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was one he couldn’t deny. Lingering by Billy’s side, Michael nodded his head. “We’ll be back to get you.”


	5. IV. Return

IV.  
Return  
 _  
“The trick is to be somewhere else.”_

_Billy could hear himself saying those words: he clearly recalled the conversation he’d had with Tsykalov a few days ago, wherein he’d offered counsel to his newfound friend. “They can do whatever they want to your body – beat it, chain it up, toss it down a hole – but your mind is as free as you want it to be. Let it go someplace far away until the storm has passed,” he’d murmured through the hole in the wall. He couldn’t see the other man, wasn’t sure what had been done to him, but he’d heard the guards bring him back hours after they’d hauled Tsykalov away, and he’d heard the quiet whimpers of pain. Whatever the professor had been forced to translate for their captors, they had apparently been less than thrilled with what they’d heard._

_“You... they beat you, but you do not break, Vasili,” Tsykalov had finally whispered hoarsely after half an hour of anguished silence during which Billy had respectfully shut up and pretended not to hear the stifled sobs. “How?”_

_And Billy had told him._

_His mind was as free as he wanted it to be._

_And right now, Billy really wanted his mind and everything else to be somewhere else. Anywhere else._

_And as the whip came down and sliced through the bare flesh of his back, adding its deceptively delicate initial sting, and then its explosive flare of burning pain to the already profound ache that wracked his body, Billy squeezed his eyes shut and went away._

_His body was chained up to the ceiling by the wrists, stripped to the waist and scourged somewhere in a cell in Morovia, but his mind was flying free across continents. He was in humid and populous Hong Kong, strolling nonchalantly through a colorful and noisome market beside Malick while they approached a drop-point. He was in the arid desert of the Sudan, watching in shock and glee as Martinez ate a live scorpion like it was candy. He was in Paris, lounging back in a fancy restaurant, glancing over the wine list while Michael recounted the halcyon days of his failed marriage. He was in Scotland, standing on the cliffs of Skye looking out over the Cuillins, spotted with flocks of sheep among the rocks, and the gray and choppy sea beyond, and the moisture on his face was the gentle misting rain of the Hebrides, and not flecks of his own blood mixed with sweat._

_“They can break your body. It’s all theirs, as they’re wont to remind us by caging us up like chattel in here. Focus on what they can’t take away from you,” he’d coached Tsykalov._

_They were words to live by. Or words to survive by, at any rate._

_Though sometimes Billy struggled to follow his own advice._

_Because as the whip came down again and again, he found himself struggling to remember the rugged skyline of the highlands. He couldn’t remember the wine they’d drank in Paris. He forgot whether or not Casey wore a tie. If Martinez was taller or shorter than Malick. Little things, little details he might not otherwise begrudge himself for losing track of, but whose absence from his memory proved challenging to overcome. The illusions he crafted to escape into filled with cracks..._

_… and eventually shattered, splitting apart as the whip cut through them, flagellating to the bone._

_And Billy returned. Back to the cell, back to his body, which shook and hung limply from its bonds. His breathing was ragged and strangely loud to his ears._

_“Khvatit,” he heard a voice say, nearly drowned out by his own gasping breaths. ‘Enough.’ He recognized that one. Billy had been giving Tsykalov lessons on ‘core fortitude’ as they called it in the agency, and the professor in return had begun instructing Billy in Russian. The most important words were the ones he needed in order to brace himself. He knew ‘Udaril yego’ meant ‘hit him.’ And ‘Opyat zhe’ meant ‘again.’ Of course, it was generally a challenge to focus on translations when all his conscious mind was aware of was the fact that someone was doing their damndest to remove all the skin from his back._

_He could smell the blood, feel it welling up hot from burning gouges, running down his back, his legs, dripping to the floor with a faint patter. He hadn’t counted the lashes. He’d been elsewhere, however briefly._

_The commander stepped in front of him, tilting his head to one side, thoughtfully. “You know, I have to confess, I am impressed. You have a certain strength. Were you one of my soldiers I would be tempted to call myself proud,” he reflected in that crisp, accented voice, deceptively devoid of cruelty. (That was reserved for the orders his voice delivered, after all)._

_“I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engendering of toads,” Billy quipped back, though the Shakespeare felt oddly heavy on his tongue. It was an obscure line to boot. But his words and his knowledge and his intellect were something they haven’t taken from him. Not yet._

_The commander looked puzzled for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “You are a funny man. And a challenge. I am sure we will have many more interesting times together, yes? I like a challenge.”_

_“So happy to be of service,” Billy mumbled, vision swimming, his own voice sounding far away._

_“I do not suppose you are willing to tell us who it is you work for, then?” The commander raised a brow in an expression that might have been mistaken for concern. “All this unpleasantness could stop, after all.”_

_Billy gritted his teeth together. “Go to hell,” he spat, trying to focus enough to stop the room from spinning._

_The commander sighed. “How uncharacteristically uneloquent of you. Very well. We shall resume this conversation at a later point.” He turned to leave and paused in the doorway. “Prodolzhatʹ kak ugodno.”_

_And Billy knew just enough Russian for his stomach to drop, just before the whip came down hard once again,_

_and again,_

_and again..._

_Later, they brought him back to the cell and dropped him on the floor. They’d flushed out the gouges in his back and he’d apparently undergone some rudimentary bandaging, though he had no memory of it. He lay where he fell on his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut against the lingering, stinging pain, trying to be somewhere else._

_“Vasili?” He heard Tsykalov scrambling on the other side of the wall. “Vasili, how are you, my friend?”_

_Billy groaned. “Never bloody better.”_

_“You did not tell them anything, though, Vasili?” There was a treble of concern in Tsykalov’s voice. Genuine concern._

_“No,” Billy finally managed, forcing himself to smile as he said it._

_“This is good,” Tsykalov affirmed, though his enthusiasm was strained. “You are good with your secrets, this is important!”_

_Secrets. Aye, Billy was good with his secrets. He hadn’t told them anything. Hadn’t told anyone much of anything. And for a man who spent so much of his time talking, Billy had a talent for never saying much of anything at all. A man of secrets. That was what made him an effective spy, wasn’t it? All secrets and little truth. He hadn’t even told Tsykalov his real name, instead agreeing to be referred to by the closest Russian equivalent to his given name. The notion had crossed his mind that the skittish professor on the other side of the wall might be some sort of trap; an actor placed to earn his trust and trick him into revealing information. But it was not a very likely notion, he’d decided: Tsyaklov had been respectful of Billy’s secrecy, and had even stopped him once or twice when he’d come close to revealing even minor personal details, pointing out quite cautiously that the cells could be bugged._

_“I have been good with my secrets too,” Tsyaklov murmured, voice dropping to just shy of a whisper._

_Billy frowned. “What d’you mean, mate?” he mumbled._

_Tsykalov muttered something, but Billy couldn’t hear. Grimacing, he moved his arms – sending fresh agony lancing through his strained and torn shoulders – and pulled himself across the floor on his belly until he could drag himself up to the wall and press his ear against the masonry._

_“I have been feeding them lies. They ask me to translate now, and I give them words, but they are not the right words,” Tsykalov whispered gleefully through the crack in the concrete. “I have found what they cannot take away from me, Vasili! I have found a way to fight them. They think I am their pet broken man, yes, but they only have my body to break. I will be like you now; I will not be giving them that which they want.”_

_Billy’s mind was still fuzzy from the loss of blood, and it took a moment for Tsykalov’s words, and their implications, to permeate the rushing in his head. “That’s brave, mate, but what’ll you do if they find out...?”_

_Tsykalov snorted. “What will they do, lock me up and torture me? Ha!” There was a rustling, and in his mind’s eye Billy could picture the other man shrugging. “I have done what they say, and I have seen the other men break and die. And I thought with fear, ‘no, that must not be me, I will not be so foolish.’ But they all died because eventually, they gave up. And I... I had already given up long ago. But not so, now.”_

_Billy leaned against the wall, the coolness of the concrete a soothing balm against his burning skin. “Wha’ changed?” he managed to slur._

_“Well, Vasili... I met a friend who taught me I am as free as I want to be. And I have decided to be free. And to go somewhere else.”_

_Billy chuckled lowly. “Sounds like a right bad influence, this friend of yours.”_

_“You have given me courage, Vasili. I will share that courage with you. Your friends, you say they will come, and they will take us both far away, yes?”_

_“Aye,” Billy croaked, the cell growing dimmer._

_“Well then, when they come we will be here, but until then –”_

_Billy smiled faintly. “Until then, tha’ trick is t’be somewhere else,” he whispered, slipping into the dark.  
_  
-o-

Going back would never be easy. Michael hadn’t expected it to be, but he had to admit, the unsettling familiarity was almost enough to make him go right back home. He might have, too, until he remembered the only thing waiting for him at home was a catatonic Billy.

Still, that wasn’t much consolation, but it was enough to keep him there. Besides, the rest of his team needed him.

Casey showed no signs of being bothered, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. If an old flame could take him down to 98 percent, then he had a feeling that Billy cooped up in the hospital knocked him down to at least 90. Maybe 85. But Casey was good at projecting the image he wanted, and for the most part, Michael couldn’t tell.

Rick wasn’t faring as well. He was restless and skittish, and a bit more prone to violence than he used to be. When Michael came back from a scouting of the neighborhood, the kid had nearly put a pair of bullets in Michael’s chest because the sound of the door opening had thrown him off so badly. He talked about Billy often, and even though Casey purposefully busied himself with other things, Michael indulged the conversation.

Not that he had to wonder. Billy was lying in a hospital bed, staring at the wall. Every three hours, the nurse would turn him and he’d stare at the ceiling. Then, the window. Then back to where they began.

Back to the beginning. 

This all started here, in Morovia. The cobblestone streets might have been charming once, but they hardly seemed that way now. The last few months had not been kind to the capitol. The rise of violence had made the streets tense and empty. Buildings showed damage from machine guns, and every few streets seemed to show damage from some type of bombing.

The fanatics had been busy, to say the least. Without a strong leader, the country was rife with conflict and any martial law could be executed without restraint. The people here had never been overwhelmingly happy, but now they just seemed to be gone.

In some ways, that made life easier. With no one on the streets, slipping through wasn’t as challenging. They didn’t have to spend time weaving through traffic, trying to spot potential threats. Now they just avoided open windows and kept a keen eye on rooftops and went about their business.

That was what this was about, after all. Business. Michael had had a number of assets in the area, but he’d lost contact with them in the months after Billy’s capture. Higgins had insisted on warning as many as possible in order to salvage as many lives and intelligence sources as possible, but the problem with sending assets to ground was that silence was hard to interpret.

“This is stupid,” Rick said, one night after they’d scoured the city on the trail of the first asset on Michael’s list. “Higgins made sure these guys knew not to be found and then he sends us in here to find them.”

“For once, I agree with Martinez,” Casey said. “This is stupid, but only because we don’t need to milk old intelligence sources when we can plan a simple offensive and dismantle the major cells on our own.”

“And then we could most likely die here,” Michael said. “I think Morovia’s taken enough from us, don’t you think?”

Casey shrugged.

“It’s still stupid,” Rick said, more insistent now. “Because they didn’t even need to go to ground. I mean, what, like Billy would break?”

At that, Casey inclined his head in agreement. “No, he’d just leave us with a catatonic mess,” he said, shaking his head with a mixture of disgust and affection. “I think he’s just trying to torture us for being so slow. Now he’s just going to take his sweet time and leave us in this hellhole of a country while he gets first class treatment and daily sponge baths.”

“He was _tortured_ ,” Rick said, a bit horrified. “I doubt he’s thinking about sponge baths.”

Michael wasn’t sure Billy was thinking at all.

Which was exactly what Michael didn’t want to be thinking about. Especially not now.

He collected a breath and cleared his throat. “The stupid thing is the three of us, sitting here and talking about things we can’t change,” he said. “This is the mission. This is what we came here for. We do it, we do it well, and then we can go home to Billy. Any objections?”

Casey was stoic, but Rick shook his head.

“Good,” Michael said, because worrying about Rick and Casey’s petty arguments was one thing he didn’t need right now.

-o-

Michael didn’t want to admit it, but it felt _good_ sometimes.

Being back in the streets, talking with the locals, chasing trails on assets. This was what he did. This was who he was. He was a spy, and it had been far too long since he’d acted like it. He found himself almost happy sometimes, sitting at one of the functional cafes, sipping his morning coffee with a paper in front of him while he tried to sort out the morning traffic.

His senses were invigorated, parsing out friends from foe, identifying potential threats and possible allies. He was starting to put together clues, starting to piece together the disparate facts to make some sort of cohesive picture about the situation on the ground.

Some days, after making his rounds and sorting his intel, he actually felt happy.

How long had it been? How many weeks? How many months? He’d almost lost track, not for lack of awareness, but because he hadn’t wanted to mark the time. He hadn’t wanted to know how long they’d had Billy back but not had him back at all. Because charting every second Billy was lost was like mapping his own failures. It was like plotting a path from which Billy might never return.

And Billy had to return. Michael could believe no less.

In that, Michael wasn’t happy, but determined. He’d given up on happiness a long time ago; he didn’t need it. Happiness didn’t keep people safe. Happiness didn’t save lives. Determination did. That was what mattered.

At least, that was what Michael kept telling himself.

-o-

Coming back into the motel, he caught Rick on the phone. He was clearly startled -- a sure sign that he hadn’t been keeping on lookout like he was supposed to -- and he made a few hushed farewells before hanging up. He flustered, trying to put the files in front of him, but he was red faced when he met Michael’s gaze.

“Important call?” Michael asked, moving his way casually around the room. He lingered at the window, unconsciously scanning the street, just to be safe.

“What?” Rick asked.

Michael turned his eyes to the younger operative, stepping away from the window again. “Who was on the phone?” he asked.

“Oh,” Rick said, glancing to the phone as if he’d forgotten it existed. “Adele. She called -- I was -- I wanted to confirm some of the protocol--”

Michael wouldn’t admit it, but Martinez wasn’t actually a half bad spy. At least, not in the field. He was too open with his workmates, though; too readily trusting other people. He hadn’t quite learned that being a spy was a full time job, and that you didn’t let your guard down, not even with your teammates.

He’d figure it out someday, though Michael couldn’t say he was overly keen on making that happen. There were enough cruel realities in their line of work. He was suddenly okay with Rick’s naiveté, for just a bit longer.

Still, accepting such behavior and not utilizing it to his benefit were two entirely different things. Michael managed a small smirk as he rounded back toward the bed. “How is Billy anyway?”

Rick’s mouth opened and he sputtered. “How do you know--” he tried to say.

Michael leveled him with a knowing look.

Rick deflated somewhat. “They’ve been testing his hands,” he admitted, giving up his pretense. “The range of motion looks good so far, but they’ll have to work with him when he wakes up to help reestablish motor control.”

Michael sat down, nodding. “What about his jaw?” he asked.

“They’re looking to snip the wires in the next day or two,” Rick reported. “That means he’ll be able to start back on solids--”

The statement ended sort of awkwardly as Rick shifted uncomfortably. It meant Billy would be able to eat solids, when he woke up.

If he woke up.

Rick wouldn’t say that, though. Wouldn’t even let himself think it.

Instead, he continued. “And the cosmetic stuff is going great,” he said. “The procedures for his scars is going better than they expected. Adele said he’ll be looking like we remembered in no time.”

Michael’s lips quirked in a small smile. “Charming women and generally causing trouble,” he agreed with as much energy as he could muster.

There was a moment of silence. It lingered until Rick sat up straighter, eyes intent on Michael. “It doesn’t seem right being here,” he said. 

“Morovia?” Michael asked.

Rick shook his head. “Anywhere,” Rick said. “Billy -- he needs us.”

“Between Adele, Fay and Blanke, he’ll still have company,” Michael assured him.

“But we’re his _team_ ,” Rick said. Then he sat back, shrugging almost helplessly. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

It had been Michael’s call to take them back into the field. It had been his decision and he knew it was the best one he could make for everyone.

And he also knew Rick was right.

He sighed. “We’re not leaving him behind again,” he said, keeping his gaze earnestly on the other man.

“It feels like it sometimes,” Rick returned.

“Yeah,” Michael said, wishing he had answers when he didn’t. “I know.”

-o-

It took the better part of a week to establish a covert presence and start putting feelers out. A few of the periphery members of the CIA’s network were still in operation -- mostly shopkeepers who were willing to turn a blind eye for compensation -- and when Michael had made casual inquiries as to some of the assets, it had only taken a few hundred dollars to get some general directions.

Even then, it was something of a wild goose chase. The further along he got with his investigation, the harder it was to pinpoint anybody at all. Most of them were just gone and no one wanted to say how or why.

When Michael finally tracked down the cousin of one of his best assets, the man did not look too happy to see him.

“Lenkov is not here,” he said curtly, going about his business, barely offering Michael a second look.

“Do you know where he is?” Michael asked.

The man stared at him hard. “Maybe I should ask you such a question, yes?”

Michael inclined his head uncertainly.

“It is your fault he is gone, is it not?” he asked, the accusation dripping.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael replied as honestly as he could.

The man rolled his eyes. “Lies,” he said. “Foreign governments come here, they promise us more. They promise us better. The promise us everything. Then, when things get -- how do you say? -- _difficult_ \-- you’re gone and everyone disappears.”

Michael shook his head. “What happened to Lenkov?”

The man threw his hands out. “How do I know?” he asked. “One day, he was here, doing his work. The next he was just _gone._ Never heard from him again. People, they don’t go missing in Morovia. People, they never come back, and you come here, looking for more.”

Michael’s chest felt tight. There were risks of this line of work, for handlers and assets. The risks were unavoidable sometimes. Sometimes compromises were made. Sometimes mistakes added up. Sometimes there was a leak. 

A sloppy asset. A bought handler. A broken operative.

Michael shook his head, and didn’t let himself think about it. Instead, he pressed on. “I can help you figure out what happened to him,” he said. “Or at least I can help make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

The man stared at him, hard and deadly. He shook his head. “More promises,” he said. “More lies. In times this difficult, we all protect our own.”

To that, Michael had no argument. As he walked away, he had nothing at all.

-o-

The stories were all the same. Assets were gone. No one wanted anything to do with three Americans in the midst of near civil unrest.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Higgins had warned the assets to go to ground; they’d have been stupid not to. The entire point of hiding was to stay hidden, even from the CIA.

It just meant they had more work to do.

“We’ve let our presence go cold,” Casey said one night when they were alone in the motel room. Rick was out, following up a lead.

“The area was too hot,” Michael said.

Casey looked at him, making a face. “That’s what we do,” he said. “It’s all frying pans and fires for us.”

Michael didn’t know what to say.

Casey shrugged. “We really need to set up a long term base here,” he continued.

It didn’t take a spy to figure out the implications. He shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he said. “And you know why.”

The certainty and defiance on Casey’s face wavered. Finally he sighed. “Yeah,” he said, but he sounded somewhat unconvinced.

Michael understood that. Sometimes he was unconvinced, too.

-o-

It was impossible not to think about.

The people who took Billy were still there, after all. They still walked freely, going home to their families and waking up for work each day. Sometimes, he wondered. Did some of them walk down the street? Had Michael seen them? Did some of them have Billy’s blood on their hands? Had some of them seen him or heard him and turned the other way?

Had Michael passed the place where Billy was taken? Had he seen the burned out shell of the vehicle that had driven him off? Had he made eye contact with the person who smashed his fingers? Who had destroyed his jaw? Who had starved him and burned him and stripped him of every bit of humanity they could?

Did they smile on street corners? Hold hands with their wives? Did they skirt the bombed out buildings with a knowing shrug? Did they sleep fine at night knowing what they’d done? Was beating Billy just another day at the office? Was ripping his clothes and flogging him just the way things had to be? Was the torture they inflicted somehow worth it in the end? Was degrading someone, taking away their worth, acceptable if it produced results?

The people responsible were still _there._ They laughed and loved and lived while Billy was in some hospital room staring at the wall.

In this, there was no justice. Michael had always known the world to be cold and hard and unfair, but Morovia was worse than that.

Morovia -- where they lost Billy, where they found what was left of him -- would always be worse than that.

-o-

The work paid off. Casey picked up the tip first, but Rick put it together. When push came to shove, Michael insisted on being the one to make contact.

Illyich was surprisingly easy to find. He’d been low on Michael’s list of assets to connect with, mostly because Michael hadn’t liked him very much. He tried not to make things personal in the spy game, but Illyich was prone to flattery, and that always made Michael skittish.

Still, Illyich looked glad to see him. “Ah, old friend!” he said, reaching his hand out to greet Michael warmly. “It has been too long.”

Michael managed to offer a weary smile. “I’ll say,” he said, glancing around Illyich’s shop. Even during the prime business hours, it was empty. “Business isn’t looking so hot.”

Illyich made a face. “Yes, yes,” he said. “War, it is bad for business.”

“It’s not war,” Michael reminded him.

Illyich leaned forward. “I’m told differently,” he said, eyebrows raised. “You must be behind on the news.”

Michael played cool, despite Illyich’s obvious offer. “You sound like you have something to say,” he said neutrally.

Illyich’s face lit up. “Only if you are looking to buy,” he said. He put on an expression of affected sympathy. “These weary hours when money is tight, they make me so forgetful.”

Michael eyed him, cautious. He’d come not to trust things that came too easily.

Of course, putting up with Illyich and spending a fortune on trinkets was never easy.

Finally, he nodded, pulling out his wallet. “I’ve been thinking about buying some t-shirts,” he said.

Illyich looked overjoyed. “Ah, I feel my memory easing up already! Oh, joyous day!”

Joyous wasn’t the word Michael would choose, but at this point, beggars could not be choosers.

-o-

That night, Michael called Fay on his secure line. 

“I just got back home,” she reported, sounding a little weary. 

“Billy’s still doing okay?” Michael asked.

“They’re talking about releasing him soon,” she said.

“But--”

“No change,” Fay confirmed quietly.

Michael didn’t let himself feel disappointed. “Thanks for checking on him,” he said.

“It’s the least I can do,” she said. “He’s done a lot for this Agency. A lot for you. He shouldn’t have to lay there alone.”

He shouldn’t have to lay there at all. Michael forced his voice to be nonchalant. “Well, you won’t have to as much now,” he said. “We’re coming back.”

Fay sounded genuinely surprised. “You managed to recruit a new asset so soon?”

“Better,” Michael said. “Illyich is still talking to us.”

“Illyich,” Fay repeated, clearly letting her memory jog. “We told him to leave town, preferably the country. Just in case.”

Just in case Billy was compromised. The implication still made Michael bristle, but he knew Fay well enough to know that she meant no malice, even if her doubts were wrong.

Still, Michael shrugged. “Well, Illyich has never been one for anonymity,” he said. “Apparently, it doesn’t pay.”

“And he’s still alive?”

“And in business,” Michael confirmed. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand why Higgins gave the order, but I think maybe we dismantled our network prematurely here.”

“Has Illyich already given you something to go off of?” Fay asked, and Michael knew she was ignoring his remark.

Michael let it slide. “Yeah,” he said. “Got a bunch of stuff to go through. We’ll have plenty to keep us busy once we get back.”

“Good,” Fay replied. There was a small pause. “And hurry home, Michael.”

Michael had found his asset. He’d gotten his intel. He just wished he could find Billy somehow, before it was too late.

-o-

Back home, Michael had to manhandle Rick into the car to send him home. If Adele hadn’t been there to pick him up, Michael doubted he would have been successful. Casey just gave him a nod, and said he’d see Michael in the morning.

Weary, he checked his watch and looked up again to see Fay, right on time.

-o-

At the hospital, Michael had to have Billy’s doctor paged three times before he showed up. He waited by Billy’s beside, starting in on Dickens while he waited.  
 _  
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  
_  
He had gotten through the first chapter when the doctor showed up, clearly distracted. “I’m almost off for the night,” he explained, sounding more annoyed than apologetic. “Something I can help you with?”

Michael put the book down. “Just wanted an update,” he said, nodding at Billy who was staring at the ceiling. 

The doctor collected a breath, letting it out with a shrug. “He’s one for the textbooks, really,” he said. “A documented case for the resiliency of the human body. We’re going to continue a little longer to ensure his jaw and fingers are fully recovered, but there isn’t much physically that will keep him here.”

Michael stared at him. Then he stared at Billy. “What about...” He didn’t want to say it. 

“The catatonia?” the doctor supplied.

Michael looked back up, almost sheepish.

The doctor shrugged again. “It’s impossible to tell if he’s any closer to coming out of it,” he said. “With cases like this, it could be days or months. It could be years.”

Or it could be never.

With a sigh, the doctor looked at Billy, almost forlorn. “I’ll have one of the nurses stop by tomorrow to talk to you about all the options.”

Michael frowned. “Options?”

The doctor nodded readily. “For longer term care,” he said. “I mean, you can take him to a private home but he’ll need 24-hour assistance. The best bang for your buck is really a facility.”

The insinuation was suddenly all too clear. “You want to put him in an institution?” Michael balked.

The doctor looked back up, clearly realizing his mistake. “There are many facilities with a range of supports in place,” he said. “Some are far more intensive than others.”

Michael shook his head. “You can’t really want to put him into an _institution_ ,” he said, his anger rising. “He’s young and you said it yourself, he’s healthy. He has a chance at full recovery.”

“It’s true,” the doctor agreed. “But only if he wakes up. If he doesn’t come out of it soon, then his muscles will start to atrophy further and the work we put into fine tuning his range of motion will be lost.”

“He can still come back,” Michael said.

“Statistically, his odds are dwindling,” the doctor said. “It’s tragic, and I’m very sorry, but that’s the reality you need to face. He’s had the best care possible, including psychological stimulation, but he hasn’t shown any response to stimulus, not even pain. I’m afraid his prognosis psychologically isn’t good.”

The bluntness hit him like an anvil. He was too mad to seethe, too shocked to mount a reply.

“You need to be prepared for the reality of his long term care,” he said. “We will be discharging him next week, so you’ll want to start getting things together now.”

The doctor looked at him fully now, and Michael saw him for who he was. The enthusiastic doctor who had performed cutting edge surgeries was gone now. In his place was the cold realist who saw Billy as an invalid in a bed, his textbook case marred by the patient’s failed mental intellect.

The implication turned Michael stomach. As if Billy had been a letdown.

Never mind the fact that Billy had been kidnapped and tortured. He’d been missing for three months, and this glory hungry doctor wanted to wash his hands of the Scot, make way for something better.

Straightening, Michael hardened his face. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he said coldly.

The doctor sighed, clearly aware of Michael’s sudden distance. “If there was anything more I could do--”

“Don’t worry,” Michael said with a bitter smile. “There’s not.”

“We can go over the options--”

“Thank you,” Michael said gruffly, cutting him off. “But I think I’ve got it from here.”

The doctor hesitated, but said nothing more, giving Billy one more look before he walked out. Michael stood there, watching Billy, hoping he hadn’t just told the hardest lie of his life.

-o-

The next few days were intense. At work, Michael pored over the intel. He cross referenced the facts, checking names and dates, mapping events on a timeline and plotting them on a map in the bullpen. He began to get a sense of the different groups in Morovia, gauging the growing power of the Narodny Dzida and judging them to be the most pressing threat to stability in the region.

At home, he studied up on rehabilitation clinics, sorting through nursing homes and long term care facilities. He ruled out ones without a full time physical therapist and made note of ones that featured prominent rehabilitation facilities. He looked for ones that treated the entire patient, who focused on recovery, not care. He made calls, ran background checks on directors and studied success rates and the percent of patients that were discharged.

Rick took the news of Billy’s discharge with a quiet vehemence. He started showing up to work late, taking long lunches. Sometimes he missed entire afternoons and dared someone to call him on it. Michael didn’t. Michael wouldn’t. Rick was taking over everything he could, turning and feeding Billy, changing and cleaning him with a growing dedication.

Casey didn’t seem surprised by the revelation. He shrugged and said it was probably better for Billy that way. When Rick asked what he meant, Casey made a face and just got back to work.

And Billy stared at the wall. He stared at the ceiling. Then he fell asleep.

Michael had his team. They were alive and healthy and together, but he was losing them all, each in different, slow persistent ways.

And he didn’t know how to stop it. He could only sit by and hope it didn’t happen.

So he spent his days studying Morovia. He spent his nights vetting facilities. And Rick skipped work and Casey stopped caring and Billy just kept staring and that was all Michael had.

-o-

In Billy’s dwindling time at the hospital, there wasn’t an official schedule; for the most part it was unspoken, but there was an understanding. Obviously, someone couldn’t always be with Billy – there were missions, and the remaining members of the ODS required food and sleep in what downtime they had – but they made a sincere effort when they were stateside to take turns watching over Billy and waiting.

And hoping.

They made tentative plans, half spoken and half implied. Michael took the early shift, driving over to the hospital after work. Months later, he still found the drive to and from Langley strangely empty without Billy making remarks in the passenger seat. 

He stayed until after dark, when Rick showed up to relieve him, a pillow and a volume of Alexander Dumas tucked under his arm. “Casey went to bed early. He’ll be by to take over for me after his 3 am workout, apparently,” Rick offered with a feeble grin. 

“What does Adele think about you spending the night here?” Michael asked, standing up and grimacing at the pins and needles that had set into his legs.

“She says it’s fine, so long as once he wakes up, he doesn’t lord it over her that her boyfriend spent so many night with him,” Rick replied with strained humor. “See you in the morning.”

And Michael went home and made an attempt at sleep, and maybe dozed off for a few hours before waking up and giving up and setting out for his morning run. After running and showering and changing and finding he still had plenty of time before he had to be at the office, he figured he’d swing by the hospital again to check on Casey.

But when he arrived back at Billy’s room, it was Rick that slumped in the chair beside the bed still, gaze as vacant and empty as Billy’s for a few seconds before he noticed Michael’s presence.

Michael frowned. “What gives, Martinez? Thought Malick was taking over for you.”

“You and me both,” Rick glowered. “He never showed.”

“Correction. I showed late. My apologies.”

Michael turned, suppressing his startled reaction, even though Casey had succeeded in sneaking up on them both. “Martinez spent the night,” he stated coolly.

Casey’s expression remained blank. “That was unnecessary.”

“Yes, it was.” Rick seethed, standing up. “Where were you? Did you have somewhere else you needed to be this morning?”

Casey narrowed his eyes. “I overslept.”

“Hah! Right. Admit it. You just didn’t want to be here.”

“And you obviously did, since you could have gone home. Billy’s condition is stable and he’s not exactly going anywhere. Maintaining this vigil is a pointless exercise.”

“Pointless? What the hell is wrong with you? It’s Billy! This isn’t pointless, this is _important!_ ”

Michael recognized the cloud of stillness that generally descended over Casey immediately preceding acts of violence. The older operative pursed his lips into a thin white line, not so much staring at the infuriated Rick as through him.

Seeing the need for intervention, Michael stepped forward. “That’s _enough_ , cool off.”

But Rick was overtired and angry and where he would normally have backed down and followed Michael’s command, exhaustion and desperation had pushed him just out of reach. “What, so he can just run off because the Human Weapon can’t deal with a little psychological _unpleasantness?_ ” he snapped, gesturing at Casey, clearly oblivious to just how close he was treading to the edge.

“This isn’t a battleground, Martinez,” Casey intoned, voice dangerously low and even, “and it isn’t a challenge any of us can overcome, so what good are any of us doing by being here and not over there?”

“Guys –”

“We left him once, already!”

“Moping around with books and pictures won’t change that.”

“– _Guys_ –”

“We’re here for him!”

“And what good has that done so far?!”

“– STOP.”

Michael stepped between the two of them, not looking at either. And that was when they both tore their eyes away from each other and looked at where Michael was staring –

– and where Billy was staring back, blinking and looking at each of them in turn. 

-o-  
 _  
Light. Light, bright, burning through his eyelids. The horrible yellow glow of the bare bulb in the cell. No, a softer, whiter light. Not burning... his skin had been burning, hadn’t it? But it hurt less now._

_He heard voices. Voices speaking, singing, shouting, weeping... hardly ever silence, always voices, cajoling and accusing and murmuring just out of reach.  
_  
(“Did you have somewhere else you needed to be?”)  
 _  
“The trick is to be somewhere else,” he told Tsykalov.  
_  
(“This isn’t pointless, this is important!”)  
 _  
“You are good with your secrets, this is important!” Tsykalov congratulated him through the hole in the wall.  
_  
(“That’s enough,”)  
 _  
“Khvatit,” the Commander had ordered, and Billy had understood enough Russian to sink in relief..._

_But there wasn’t any relief. Not for him, not for Tsykalov, not when the Commander and his men had been there. Billy felt his heart begin to pound.  
_  
“...can’t deal with a little psychological _unpleasantness?”_

_“All this unpleasantness could stop, after all,” the Commander had said. And it had been a lie. It couldn’t stop. It never did, and he knew what came next – what always came next –  
_  
“–it isn’t a _challenge–”_

_(“I like a challenge,” the Commander murmured with a lupine smile)  
_  
And Billy knew what came next and he found himself wanting to scream but his throat had closed in panic. He sat up, trying to curl up defensively only to find he barely had to strength to bend his legs, let alone protect himself from his tormentors –

– no, not his tormentors, his friends –  
 _  
“Your friends, you say they will come, and they will take us both far away, yes?”  
_  
But they hadn’t. They hadn’t and day after day he’d waited and tried to hold on to hope, but it was all just fever dreams in the end. He was still in a cell somewhere, rotting, his mind hallucinating as it shut down, his body wracked –

– wracked with very little pain. The aches were dull now, distant, and he was lying on something soft. A bed. A hospital. And it wasn’t his tormentors looming over him, but the ODS, staring with expressions of disbelief as Billy furtively glanced at each of them.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“–Billy?” Michael ventured tentatively, taking a careful step forward. 

And the pounding in Billy’s chest began to slow. Not real, not real... could it? He’d believed before... believed and hoped and that hope had almost killed him when it had been dashed to bits over and over, the broken shards shredding him to pieces.

But this was different. This wasn’t belief.

This was real.

He opened his mouth and a choking, broken sound escaped as a prelude to words. He grimaced, swallowed, and looked at each of them in turn before finally managing to croak out the words he’d given up hoping he’d have the chance to say:

“You came.”


	6. V. Rehabilitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes graphic violence and deals with suicide.

V.  
Rehabilitation  


_  
Billy spent the next several days barely lucid. His skin was papery and hot to the touch as fever wracked him, the gouges on his back burning and oozing. Infection had set in, and for a while, he wondered if he might die. Now and then there would come a fleeting moment when he’d wish he would – but then that madness would pass and he’d grit his teeth through the pain, because all he had to do was hold on._

_Hold on and wait. And survive._

_There were times when the only thing anchoring him was the sound of Tsykalov’s voice. Sometimes he listened – paid attention to the professor’s tales of his days teaching at the university; of his travels in search of old Pomeranian texts; of his daughter, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris – and other times he would fade until all he was aware of was the lilting cadence and rough consonants of the other man’s speech._

_On the third day the fever finally broke, and while he remained weak and unable to bear any touch against his raw and bloody back, he found the shivers had abated and he was able to think more clearly, occasionally even responding to Tsykalov’s rambling stories._

_Then, the captors came._

_He cringed at the sound of clinking keys. He’d been offered a brief reprieve from the torture – long enough to recover – but it seemed that he wouldn’t be afforded any longer._

_Only they didn’t take him to the interrogation room._

_He heard Tsykalov cry out in the cell beside him as he was hauled out, and Billy grunted as the guard manhandled him roughly in the opposite direction they usually went, slapping heavy cuffs on to his already-chafed wrists. He caught a brief glimpse of Tsykalov – thin and gray-haired with a pair of broken spectacles precarious on his crooked nose – before the hood came down over his head and blocked out everything. They hauled him through several hallways, then up a set of stairs. He heard a heavy door open and even though it was still dark, there was a sudden change in the quality of the air that let him know they were outside. Even through the burlap odor of the hood, he found himself savoring that air, however briefly._

_Then he was loaded up into the back of what he realized was a truck when the engine sputtered to life. There were other bodies around him – mostly guards, from the ominous click of weaponry, though a few whimpers and gasps suggested other prisoners. He thought he heard someone whisper “Vasili”, but he wasn’t sure._

_The journey through the city – he assumed they were still in Prensk, from the shuddering of the wheels over the cobblestone streets – was full of twists and turns that made Billy’s stomach turn, though he’d eaten little enough in the past few days that he doubted there was much to vomit. Then they arrived to wherever their destination was, and guards barked at them in a mixture of Russian and what Billy was now, thanks to Tsykalov, pretty confident was Ukrainian._

_The hood was removed with the manacles right before he was flung into a new cell, catching himself against the wall to break his fall before slowly slumping to the ground and taking in his surroundings._

_The cell was small. Perhaps even smaller than his last one, though a bit less narrow. The walls were stone, the floor dirt, and the ceiling surprisingly high, with a lightbulb in a small metal cage hanging overhead, its light painfully bright after the blackness of the hood. There was also, Billy noticed, a speaker set into one of the walls. Finally, there was a drain in the floor, and apart from that, nothing._

_“Tsykalov?” He called out warily, hoping he might have had the luck to be placed in a cell beside his friend again._

_Deafening silence was the only reply._

_Curling up (he’d only have the room to stretch out if he stood), Billy tried to ignore the lightbulb and closed his eyes. Though the entire transportation ordeal could not have taken more than an hour, it had left him exhausted. Back in his old cell, he reflected, he’d had the remains of his vest and blazer to use as a pillow; but now, he had nothing. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stink wafting from the drain, and tried to let himself get some rest in preparation for whatever was in store._

_The shrill and blaring noise, partway between a beep and a klaxon, made him jump half out of his skin. It took him a few moments to even register what happened, sitting up and looking frantically around until he remembered the speaker in the wall. Glaring at it, he laid back down on the ground and closed his eyes again –_

_– and again, that awful, keening sound that set his teeth on edge. “So we’re playing that game, are we?” he mumbled. He’d read all the manuals on interrogation techniques, attended all the training seminars, and realized he ought to have been surprised that his captors hadn’t employed sleep-deprivation tactics yet._

_But he wasn’t looking forward to it._

_“Couldn’t you maybe just play some music?” he shouted up at the speaker, feeling petulant. And why the bloody hell shouldn’t he be? He’d spent weeks -- weeks -- in captivity, being beaten, shocked, and flogged. He’d been fed little but slop and gruel, left to marinate in his own filth and rags, and now his only friend had been moved somewhere else, and they wouldn’t let him at least escape all this for the mere duration of a nap. If anyone had earned the right to be bloody petulant, it was Billy Collins._

_The speaker blared, this time for no apparent reason. Billy groaned, rolled back onto his side, and put his hands over his ears._

_-o-_

_They wouldn’t let him sleep._

_He’d tried clambering up the walls in the hopes of breaking the infernal speaker, but the stonework was too smooth and even with Billy’s height and lanky limbs, he could barely scrabble at the edges of the thing with his fingertips. The same went for the lightbulb, though he took off the torn remains of his shirt and tied it into a sort of rope to have a go at the thing anyway. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the light against the inside of his eyelids; its harsh glow was burned into his retinas._

_They wouldn’t let him sleep._

_He still flinched every time the speaker went off. Soon he found himself shaking. The world began to get weird, and he found himself looking down at his hands like they were a stranger’s. Nothing felt real. It was like staring at a picture of the world, and not living in it._

_They wouldn’t let him sleep._

_Eventually he was ready to weep with frustration; he was just so damn tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. Just sleep._

_But they wouldn’t let him sleep._

_-o-_

_Billy had to concentrate to keep his eyes focused._

_They dropped him unceremoniously into a chair, sitting opposite from the Commander. In between them was a wooden table, whose contents were concealed with an old sheet. Billy found his gaze drawn down to it, though he was too addled from the lack of sleep to glean anything from the general shapes of the objects beneath the cloth. When the commander spoke, Billy looked back up, blinking. “Wha?”_

_“I said, my friend, you look tired,” the commander repeated himself with a smile crinkling up the corners of his too-blue eyes._

_Tired. Tired was an understatement. Billy had gone through one end of tired and out the other, emerging into numbness. He giggled. “O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, that thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness?” he quipped._

_The commander grinned. “Henry IV! And here I thought you would go with ‘The Tempest.’”_

_Billy shook his head, as much in reply as to dislodge the crick in his neck. “Too obvious. Though I’m pleased to find my references are not all for naught.”_

_The commander shrugged. “Morovia may not be a bastion of intellectuals, but we still know how to read books, yes? Though I am not as enamored of your English Shakespeare, I think.”_

_“Let me guess, you’ve more of a Tolstoy fan?” Billy ventured._

_The commander smiled again, and Billy found himself marvelling at how pleasant, how deceptively un-evil the man could appear. “Dostoevsky, actually.”_

_Dostoevsky. That took Billy all the way back to his university days. He had to squint for a moment, wracking his memory, and then... “ ‘I think the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.’ ” he managed._

_The commander clapped his hands in joy. “You have read The Brothers Karamazov! Splendid.”_

_And suddenly, Billy laughed. He threw back his head and laughed until he was dizzy and his vision was spotty and his chest hurt. Because it was all just too ridiculous, wasn’t it? He was sitting here, at a table, discussing literature with the man who routinely had him beaten half to death – the man who tortured him – as if it were the most normal thing in the world. When he finally recovered himself, his eyes were bright with tears (tears of mirth, he told himself, not the other kind), and he felt a bit lightheaded. “Sorry, mate. Just had to take a moment to appreciate the situation.”_

_The commander didn’t appear overly perturbed. “It is unusually civilized, is it not? But you and I, we are both civilized men. There is no need for this to become... barbaric. Not when we are able to consider alternative courses.”_

_“I suppose those alternative courses involve me spilling my guts to you and your lads?”_

_A shrug. “All I need is for you to tell me who you are working for and why exactly you were in Morovia.”_

_“Not a chance, mate.”_

_A sigh. The commander leaned back in his chair and looked Billy over critically. “Consider how this works. I know who you are, and who you work for, and that means I can cut a deal. We play the game where we bargain over hostages and resources, and eventually, I get something I want. And you get to go home. But I can not do that when all I have is a spy who only goes by ‘Vasili’ because he will not tell his fellow what his name is.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop thoughtfully. “Tell me what I need to know, and we can all walk away from this.”_

_It was a tempting lie. A deception wrapped in logic and truth that gave it dangerous appeal. And his current state of exhaustion made the possibility all the more seductive. They’d let him go. They’d let him sleep...._

_But Billy knew better. “Aye, let me tell you who I am and where I’m from so you can declare an international incident and potentially start a war, or at least justify the seizure and torture of any citizen or tourist you can then deem to be a threat by any manner of association. That’ll be brilliant,” he snapped, shaking the sleepiness away. He was out of it, aye, but not so far gone as to believe that load of rubbish._

_The commander sighed, and for a moment, looked legitimately saddened. “This is too bad. I had hoped... But it seems we will not be having civilized conversation after all.” He leaned forward and pulled the sheet back._

_Billy blanched. He immediately shrank away at the sight of what awaited on the table, but the guards (who he’d utterly forgotten about in his haze) grabbed him by the shoulders, taking a firm grip on his arms and slamming his hands painfully down on the table, where leather and buckled restraints had been bolted into the wood._

_“I think ‘civilized’ may have just run screaming from the room,” Billy hissed as he was forcibly restrained, the guards working methodically against his struggles as they lashed his hands to the table and his arms to the chair until he couldn’t move. He could feel his pulse quickening in anticipation and sweat beading at his temples._

_A guard stepped forward with a syringe in his hand and Billy tried to pull away, but when the commander gave an idle nod the plunger dove straight into Billy’s bicep, without any attempt to locate a vein or blood vessel. “What –”_

_“Relax,” the commander said, then paused. “Or don’t. That is a carefully measured dose of adrenalin you have been administered. I do not want you falling asleep on me. Or passing out.”_

_The commander’s hand hovered in the air for a moment as he surveyed his options, then he smiled and settled on an instrument, reaching down and picking up a small hammer. “There are many different types of pain, I have found. Some men are weak and will succumb to any pain at all. Some men are strong, but will eventually wear down under enough pain, the way a stone will eventually wear away under a flow of water. But since I do not have the time or the patience for the water to erode the stone... I find it is more useful to experiment until I find the most effective tool to use. It is about efficiency, yes? A stone will erode beneath the water in time, but if you want the stone to break, well,” he played with the hammer, testing its weight for a moment, then brought it down in an arcing blow right on to Billy’s ring finger._

_Billy screamed._

_The commander grinned, and all traces of genial, pleasant grandfatherly-ness vanished. “If you want the stone to break, you hit it with a hammer. You see, beatings, shocks... they hurt, and it is a general hurt to all of the body. You might have a few scars, yes, but it is mostly just unpleasant. But when I do this--” he brought the hammer down on Billy’s little finger, and Billy could not only feel but also hear the bones grind together “-- you feel a very focused, specific pain. And you also know that this is damage that will last. Did you know I used to be a violinist?”_

_Billy muffled his scream and it emerged as a smothered yell through his teeth._

_“I was second chair first violin in the Prensk orchestra until I broke my hand. I know this is very painful. And I am fortunate that, even though I will never play violin again, I have other skills that I am able to put to use. But you... how much of your body can you afford to have broken, my friend? How much before you are no longer of use to anybody?”_

_He clenched his teeth together so hard he thought his jaw would break. “So long. As I’m. No use. To you,” he managed, gasping with hissing breaths._

_The commander clicked his tongue, lowering the hammer and picking up a pair of pliers instead._

_Billy no longer felt tired._

_Billy only felt icy dread.  
_  
-o-

Michael wasn’t one for wayward hopes and speculative beliefs. Hope often left people down; belief often turned out wrong. He based his actions on things he could prove; he reasoned on the concrete facts, not his willful interpretation of such things. Life, in general, was better that way. Not necessarily easier, but it was how he survived as a spy.

That was why the last half year had been so difficult for him. All he’d had was the unbridled hope that Billy would get better. All he’d had to base it on was the unfounded belief that they might all still be okay. It had defied logic, the odds had been against them, and still, Michael had persisted because the alternative was too cold and hard to grasp.

While this survival tactic had kept him sane, it had been a tenuous thing. In truth, he hadn’t just been waiting for Billy to come back to them. He’d been waiting for all of them to come back. Because when they lost Billy, they’d lost an important part of themselves. When they couldn’t bring him back, when his sanity hung precariously in medical jargon and a vacant stare, Michael had been reduced to hope and belief like the rest of the world.

It had been humbling.

It had paid off.

Because there Billy was, still too thin and laid out in a hospital bed, but looking at him.  
 _  
Looking_ at him.

Blue eyes focused and confused and seeing.

Michael didn’t speak -- he didn’t know what to say. He barely remembered how to breathe as Billy look from Michael to Casey to Rick and back again. When he spoke, his voice was rough, cracking with disuse and abuse. But the words were clear. “You came,” he said, almost shocked. As if he hadn’t expected it. As if he couldn’t believe it. As if it had actually been in doubt.

Hope and belief had been all Michael had had. Billy, apparently, had been left with even less.

Next to him, Casey was smirking. Rick was gaping.

For a moment, they all stood like that, hope and belief giving way to knowledge and fact.

Michael swallowed hard and forced himself to speak. “Of course we did,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Billy blinked, making a small choked noise that sounded like a laugh. A smile tugged briefly at his cheeks, and Michael felt his heart swell uncharacteristically.

Billy was okay. Billy was okay.

They would be okay. Billy would get cleared for duty; they’d be a team again. Things would be like they were before. They would get through this. Together, they would get through this.

Then, Billy’s face crumbled and his entire body shuddered. He seemed to cave in, curling in on himself, pulling onto his side almost in the fetal position as the first sob racked his body.

It was followed by another, and then the tears starting flowing as Billy’s muffled cries filled the air.

In Michael’s mind, Billy always woke up with a quip and a smile. Usually, he woke up with his mouth running, already trying to finagle his way out of the hospital early or to get some better food from the cafeteria. Really, he’d only seen Billy cry a few times in his life, almost all of which had involved extreme mortal pain. It was hard to begrudge a man a cry when nursing a bullet wound in the field or when limping through the jungle with a broken ankle. The Scot had cried once after Carson was declared dead, drunk out of his mind when Michael dropped him off after scooping him off the floor of his favorite bar.

But Billy didn’t cry as a general rule. Not about the setback or losses in his life. Not about anything.

So this unabashed weeping was unexpected.

It was also heartbreaking.

Michael had been sure that the worst memory of Billy would be when they’d found him in that cell, when he’d been nothing but a bag of bones, more dead than alive. Then he’d been sure seeing him washed out and limp in the German hospital would be it, when Billy had been kept alive more by medical intervention than his own tenacity. When they’d gotten back, that cold, dead stare had almost numbed Michael to his core, and he’d been convinced that was as bad as it would ever get.

He’d been wrong. 

Because Billy was alive. Billy was healed. Billy was coherent. And Billy was crying. A desperate, broken cry.

Michael couldn’t save Billy at any of those other points. Maybe he couldn’t save Billy now. But there was one thing he could do, and he was man enough to do it.

Casey was so tense that Michael half-thought he’d run. Tears were running down Martinez face. But Michael kept his focus on Billy, clearing the distance to his bed in two steps. Sitting down, he reached out, putting a hand on Billy’s shoulder.

For a second, Billy tensed, his entire body stiffening at the simple and familiar touch. He seemed to pull back a cry, snorting painfully through his tears, suddenly self conscious. 

Then Michael slowly worked his hand down, rubbing Billy’s back in slow, even movements. It took a moment, but Billy relaxed by degrees, and when the sobs started in earnest again, Michael didn’t care about convention. He didn’t care about professional detachment. He just cared about Billy.

Scooping Billy up, he eased him off the bed and into his arms. Billy didn’t resist, but he seemed hesitant for a moment, but when Michael had him settled, Billy let go.

The tears came faster now, the sobs shaking them both as Billy cried so hard that he almost couldn’t breathe. It was all Michael could do to hold on, Billy’s hot face pressing through his dress shirt. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but Michael wasn’t about to let go.

As long as Billy needed him, he would never let go.

-o-

The doctor made a special trip in. When he started his exam on Billy, the Scot visibly flinched, pulling away almost in fear.

Smiling, the doctor reached out. “I’m sure this is very strange to you,” he said. “But I promise, you and I have been quite well acquainted over the last few months.”

Billy blinked, his blue eyes huge and wary. Since waking up, he’d stopped crying, but he’d been twitchy and distant. Attempts at conversation had had mixed success; while Billy’s memory seemed largely intact, he was newly introverted, barely looking people in the eyes.

He seemed to tolerate Michael, Rick and Casey, but having doctors and nurses in the room made Billy look like he wanted to run, like a scared rabbit backed into a corner.

When Billy didn’t willingly offer his arm to have his reflexes checked, the doctor didn’t push. Instead, he stood casually, nodding. “We can get to that later, then,” he said, glancing at the monitors and making some visual note of his vitals. He looked back to Billy. “And can you tell me the date?”

Billy’s gaze skittered away. He shook his head. “I don’t know the date,” he said, the words too fast and slurred.

The doctor frowned a little, looking back to Michael and the rest of the ODS. “Has his speech been impaired since he’s been awake?”

Michael shrugged. After his first two words, they hadn’t actually gotten Billy to speak in much more than monosyllables. 

The doctor looked back at Billy. “Probably just some residual adjustment from the jaw surgery,” he said. “Can you tell me where you are?”

Billy shifted nervously, shaking his head rapidly, even as he said, “Hospital.”

“Good,” he doctor said. He gestured to the team. “And you remember who these men are?”

Billy’s eyes followed the gesture obediently. His eyes settled on each of them again before darting away. He nodded. “My friends,” he said. “Michael Dorset. Casey Malick. Rick Martinez. They said they’d come back for me.”

“And we did,” Rick chimed in. “We would always come.”

The resounding affirmation didn’t seem to have much effect. Billy shrank further into the bed.

The doctor nodded. “Very good,” he said. He looked back to Michael. “Billy, do you mind if I have a word with your friends?”

Billy shrugged his good shoulder listlessly.

The doctor offered another smile, then gestured for Michael to join him in the hall.

Michael got up, stopping next to Billy first. He reached down, placing a hand on Billy’s shoulder. Billy went very still but didn’t flinch. “We’ll be right outside, okay?”

Billy looked up, eyes wide and panicked.

Michael patted him again. “I promise.”

Billy didn’t protest, but when he looked down, his shoulders slumped. 

Just then, Rick came up beside him. “I’ll stay,” he said, easing in next to Michael with a smile. “I never did get to finish telling Billy about my sixth grade baseball season.” He grinned. “It’s a nail biter.”

Billy didn’t look up this time, but he made no further signs of distress. Hesitant, Michael walked away, Casey not far behind.

In the hall, the doctor was making notes on Billy’s chart. He smiled when he saw Michael. “This is good news,” he said.

“Gee, is that your expert medical opinion?” Michael asked.

“I’m sure the thousands of dollars in student loans was worth it to be able to say something so brilliant,” Casey added.

The doctor, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. “Now that he’s cognizant, we’ll able to start more aggressive physical therapy,” he said. “I’m a little worried about the quality of his speech right now, but once we can analyze how he’s using the jaw, we can work to correct the deficiencies in his speech. I’d like to see him work his hands and check the range of motion on the shoulder, but this is a very good thing.”

Michael didn’t disagree. 

Casey was the one who spoke, though. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

The doctor looked at a loss.

“His psychological state,” Michael supplied for Casey. “He’s never exactly been timid.”

“Considering the trauma he’s been through, I think it’s to be expected,” the doctor said.

“I know it’s expected,” Casey said shortly. “But how long until he stops looking like he wants to cower in a corner and gets back to annoying me as usual?”

The doctor shrugged. “Psych has never been my area of expertise,” he said. “We’ve already had our best doctor scanning the file. We’ll page her and have her come in for a full consult in the morning. With this development, I think we can probably delay his release a week or two, give him time to get more intensive therapy around the clock.”

Michael almost wanted to laugh. There was the ambitious doctor again who suddenly saw his chances of getting published buoy.

Really, the doctor probably had a point. Billy would need therapy. Physically and psychologically. But he didn’t need it here, with strangers who only wanted to use him. These people didn’t know him. They’d been ready to write him off; they didn’t know Billy like the ODS did.

They’d gotten Billy this far; they’d get him the rest of the way, too. 

Michael smirked. “I thought there was nothing more you could do for him.”

“While he was catatonic--”

Michael just shook his head. “Try to convince someone else,” he said. “Billy’s not staying here. And he’s not going to some institution. He’s going home.”

Billy was _finally_ going home.

-o-

Michael made arrangements. Because that was what Michael did. He organized, orchestrated, and executed plans. He took into account all the variables and addressed all the possibilities. He made calls, cajoled and threatened, and generally always wound up getting what he wanted.

It was familiar territory, for once.

Only instead of arranging a mission, he was arranging Billy’s life. 

The discharge paperwork was easy enough to obtain. There had been a small amount of hassle back when they’d first checked Billy in where he’d had to pull strings and get Higgins to make a moderately threatening call in order to have Michael listed as Billy’s medical proxy, but now that Billy was conscious and more-or-less coherent, he was able to sign himself out – though his hands still struggled with the pen, his signature emerging as a cumbersome squiggle. Michael had made a joke about Billy having handwriting to rival the doctors’ chickenscratch, but it fell flat, and Billy said nothing.

Casey agreed to pick Billy up from the hospital once he was cleared for discharge, and Michael and Rick had gone ahead to Billy’s motel to prepare it for his arrival. The housecleaning staff had stopped coming by months ago, refusing to waste time cleaning an unoccupied room, and Michael had noted the last time he’d stopped in for Billy’s books that the place needed airing out. He and Rick opened the windows, wiped away the dust that had built up, and lit a few scented candles Martinez had brought to chase away the mustiness (“my mom swears by them,” Rick mumbled sheepishly as he pulled the candles from his bag).

Michael was putting back all the books he’d borrowed when Rick pulled out Billy’s old guitar from the corner. 

“We should tune this,” he remarked, and immediately sat down and began plucking at it, twisting the pegs accordingly.

“He could barely sign his name, Martinez. I don’t think Billy’s hands are going to be up for the guitar just yet,” Michael replied, tucking the tattered copy of ‘Henry V’ back into place.

Rick looked down. “Yeah, you’re probably alright.” He stared down at the guitar for several long minutes, biting his lower lip.

Michael sighed. “Whatever you’re agonizing over, Martinez, just say it out loud. I can _hear_ you fretting.”

“Are you sure he’s going to be ok?” Rick blurted out. “I mean, coming back here, by himself?”

A shrug. “He’s a grown man. And he’s finally back in his own head. The worst is over, and if anyone can get through all of that, it’s Billy,” Michael said. He sounded confident, which was nice, since he wasn’t entirely sure who he was really trying to convince. “He needs his independence.” _He needs his dignity._ The memory of Billy sobbing like a child in his arms wasn’t one that Michael would be free of anytime soon. 

Rick put the guitar down. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He reached into his pocket as his phone buzzed, glancing down at the screen. “That’s Casey. They’re on their way.”

Michael took a last look around the room. It had never been homey, but it had to be better than the hospital. Still...

“Oh, and one more thing.” Rick smiled as he reached into his backpack. 

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me it’s not another candle. This place is starting to smell like a Yankee Candle store.”

“Nah, better.” Rick grinned and tossed the roll of paper mache streamers to Michael. “I figure we have about twenty minutes to make this look like an actual ‘welcome home party.’”

And Michael smiled in spite of himself. 

-o-

By the time Billy and Casey arrived, the place looked a little more like home. Maybe not like Billy’s home -- it was entirely too clean for that -- but inviting nonetheless. And considering that Billy had spent three months locked in a dark cell and another three cooped up in a hospital, the motel suite really had to be an improvement.

Michael had been too busy to let himself get excited, but he had to admit, when he heard the keys jingle in the lock, he couldn’t deny the building anticipation. After everything they’d been through, after all the time that had passed, Billy was coming home.

There was a finality about that which felt _good._

Nearby, Rick stopped short, hurriedly blowing out one of the candles and stuffing the remaining streamers in his pocket. Michael wouldn’t admit it, but the place did smell better and the streamers gave a festive if gaudy appearance. Nothing fancy, but this was the ODS. Fancy wasn’t really in their gamebook.

This was the ODS. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought that and had it mean something. This was the ODS. Michael and Rick and Casey and _Billy._

When the door finally opened, Michael was smiling. The first thing he saw, however, was Casey. The older operative harrumphed, finagling a suitcase through the door. He glanced around and made a face. “If someone brings out a pinata, I swear, I’m leaving,” he muttered.

Rick glowered. “They’re not for you,” he hissed.

Michael ignored them both, moving forward to see Billy.

He was still in the doorway, just beyond the threshold. His eyes were open and wide, head up as he stared in total disbelief.

Moving forward, Michael grinned. “Sorry that it’s so clean,” he said. “I was going to leave it in its natural state, but I was afraid of what might start growing.” He looked around, shrugging. “You can dirty it up again in no time.”

Billy didn’t reply, just blinked once, then twice.

Michael took an awkward breath, and Rick seemed to swoop in, edging around Casey with enthusiasm. “We can talk about it more when you come in,” he said. “We ordered out -- pizza. I know it’s not your favorite, but we wanted something fast.”

Rick was talking quickly, and at first, Billy seemed to be listening. But his eyes dulled slightly as he continued, and Michael took that as his cue to intervene. 

“Maybe you’d like to come in?” he asked, jerking his head back toward the tidy living space.

Billy seemed to focus at that, eyes fixing on Michael’s briefly before he looked to the room.

Michael took another step closer, and lowered his voice. In the days since Billy had woken, he’d found that quiet tones seemed to elicit more positive responses. Nuance wasn’t particularly Michael’s forte, but he could pull it off when he needed to.

“Otherwise we’re going to have to share pizza with the maid,” Michael quipped.

Billy’s brow crinkled at that, the joke clearly not quite registering. But still, Billy seemed to grasp what Michael meant. He hesitated another moment, looking down at his feet as if to remind himself that they were still there and functional. Then, Billy took a breath, swallowing convulsively before stepping inside.

It was a small step and a big one all the same. Michael wasn’t about to steal a line from Neil Armstrong, but he was starting to know the feeling.

One step was followed by another as Billy continued studying the room. His gaze lingered on the books, the radio, the guitar. He made no move toward any of them, but the wonder was enough, as if he couldn’t believe they were real. As if he were trying to remember that they were truly his.

It was a childlike wonder, and it was as encouraging as it was heartbreaking. Billy had never had much in this life, and to see him look with such uncertainty at what little he did have...

It made Michael hate Morovia more than he already did.

There was no time for vengeance, or for regrets. As Billy studied the room, Rick’s enthusiasm seemed to mount. “All your stuff is here,” he said, a bit overzealous. “We still need to tune the guitar.”

Michael gave him a look.

Rick reddened. “We should sit,” he said, voice rushed with embarrassment.

Billy stiffened a little, and he ducked his head back down, shoulders slouching just slightly. Without comment, he eased his way over to the closest chair and sat down.

Michael winced. That was another thing he’d noticed about Billy. He was unusually compliant these days. Given a choice, Billy said nothing. Given a suggestion, he readily complied. 

Rick looked a little stricken, and Michael moved quickly to avoid further awkwardness. “I think maybe we all need to sit,” he said, as casually as he could as he moved toward the couch. Rick readily acquiesced, taking a seat in the other chair. 

Casey just grunted, rolling his eyes. “I think maybe I need a drink,” he muttered, moving off toward the fridge.

Michael wouldn’t say it, but he knew Casey wasn’t the only one.

-o-

They had never exactly been a talkative group. Sure, they could go back and forth in briefings just fine. They were great when it came to planning a mission, each poking holes to see how well things would stay together in the field. And they liked each other. They didn’t mind long flights together and there was always something to talk about in the breakroom.

All that aside, they were still mostly professional in their interactions. That wasn’t to say they weren’t friends -- if Michael had friends, these three men were the only ones that mattered. But they didn’t spend their time talking about their lives or their feelings. In fact, they spent their time talking about anything but those things. 

So sitting together in Billy’s motel suite, trying to make small talk was more than a little awkward. After all, they didn’t have work to talk about. Because even if Billy was up to discussing the office, there was no way any of them was about to touch that topic with a ten foot pole for fear of what might get said.

That left few safe things to talk about. Michael had always known that Billy was the chatty one of the group, but that had never been more painfully obvious when he no longer seemed able to fill the lapses.

To Rick’s credit, he did his best to fill in. But where Billy had been a seamless storyteller, Martinez was a bit heavy handed, and his repertoire was oddly realistic. Billy’s stories always had a hint of unreality; Rick seemed to report the facts of his life verbatim.

Which was probably why Michael actually found them amusing half the time. 

“So you really didn’t know?” Michael asked. “That your fiancé was secretly dating your brother?”

Rick shrugged. “I was in the middle of training at the Farm,” he said. “I was busy.”

Michael snorted. 

“What?” Rick said.

Casey sighed, barely glancing toward them as he finished off another beer. “The irony,” he said dully. “A spy being completely unaware of the duplicity going on literally under his nose.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Rick protested. Then he sighed. “Okay, so maybe it was a _little_ bad.”

Michael was on his second beer himself, which was enough to make him laugh. Still, he made a point to keep it toned down. Billy seemed to startle at loud noises. When the pizza guy had knocked, Billy had nearly jumped out of his seat, half curled into a protective ball until Michael assured him that it was no big deal.

Ever since, though, Billy had watched over his shoulder warily, as if it might buzz again.

It was going to take time, Michael knew that. He was ready for that. Billy deserved it.

That didn’t make it easier, though.

Filling the silence, Michael leaned over and snagged another piece of pizza. “There’s one left, people,” he announced.

Casey grunted. “I’ve had enough overly processed food,” he said. “I don’t need to further contaminate my body.”

Rick yawned a bit, shaking his head. “Can’t do it.”

Michael pushed the box gently in Billy’s direction. “Billy?”

It took a moment, but Billy blinked, looking toward the pizza. Michael knew Billy didn’t want the piece. Billy had barely touched the one he had on his paper plate. He’d nibbled awkwardly on the crust, picking half heartedly at the pepperoni. Each bite seemed tentative and pained, although Michael couldn’t be sure how much of that was from the residual jaw injury or just Billy’s complete lack of familiarity with the simple act of eating.

Or both.

This was why offering Billy the pizza was important. They needed to create a new normal for Billy, reacclimate him to _living._

Plus, if he didn’t talk to Billy directly, Billy didn’t respond at all. Even so, Michael was keenly aware that his responses were getting sluggish.

This time, as he stared at the pizza, his eyes seemed to glaze.

“Well, it’ll keep,” Rick chimed in. “Cold pizza in the mornings. One of my favorites.”

Martinez was still trying. Casey hardly seemed to be paying attention. But Michael kept his eyes on Billy, watching as his posture loosened, head tilting just slightly to the side as his eyes went vacant.

It made Michael shudder. He’d spent too long with that look. He’d read too many soliloquies to those sightless blue eyes. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Scooting forward, he reached out. When his fingers brushed Billy’s arm, the Scot jerked, as if he’d been shocked. “Billy?” he asked.

It took a moment, but Billy’s gaze lifted. After a moment, his eyes focused but only briefly. He seemed to look at Michael but not see him, responding to Michael’s voice without understanding him at all.

Truthfully, it freaked Michael out. 

But Michael wasn’t about to be truthful.

Instead, he put his pizza back down and smiled. “It’s been sort of a big day,” he said, eyes still intent on Billy. “What do you guys say? Should we call it a night?”

Rick and Casey started shuffling, but Michael’s focus was singular. 

“Billy?” he asked. “Ready for bed?”

This time, when Billy blinked, he seemed to see Michael. For a moment, his eyes went wide and then went dull once more.

Michael’s hand lingered, squeezing Billy’s wrist gently. “Bed it is,” he said, and Billy didn’t disagree, didn’t resist, as Michael pulled him to his feet and steered him to the bedroom.

-o-

Billy got up on his own, but on his feet, he seemed confused about where to go. To avoid the inevitable awkwardness, Michael got up with him and moved in the general direction of the bedroom. “Been a while, huh?” Michael asked as lightly as he could.

Staring toward the doorway, Billy looked genuinely perplexed, reminding Michael that it had been more than a while. Half a year. While Michael had slept in his office or slumped in a waiting room chair, Billy had been gone, sleeping in conditions Michael wouldn’t wish on an enemy.

So maybe the confusion was warranted.

It still wasn’t necessarily the easiest thing to deal with. Billy had never needed his hand held. He’d come to Michael as a fully trained spy. That spy was still there -- somewhere. If it took Billy’s captors three months to bury it, Michael would give as long as he needed to find it again.

It had to be baby steps though. Billy had just gotten out of the hospital. He’d need a good night’s rest to start realizing that this was actually real.

Fortunately, Michael was also a damn good spy. He snagged some of the paper plates and made his way toward the kitchenette. “Sheets should be clean,” he said. “And there should be some fresh clothes in the drawers.”

Billy took a long moment, but finally he swallowed, nodding shakily. Then his eyes darted to Michael, then to Rick and Casey before he ducked his head again. The first step he took was slow, and Michael busied himself by balling up napkins in the trash, keeping his eyes on Billy without looking directly.

Of all his injuries, Billy’s legs had been relatively untouched. Burned, bruised and bloodied, but nothing permanent. Even so, the months of disuse had taken their toll and Billy’s gait was just slightly unsteady. Still, he managed the distance on his own, pausing at the threshold with another small shudder before going inside. There, he loitered, seeming to contemplate his next move. He settled on pushing the door just slightly shut, but the light stayed off and there was no further noise.

That was something anyway.

Sighing, Michael finished throwing out his trash when Rick brought his over, eyes intent on the partially open bedroom door. “Should we check on him?” he asked, voice hushed as he nodded toward the door.

Casey joined them, dropping his used cans noisily in the sink. “Would you like to read him a bedtime story, too?” he asked. “Maybe you can bring your security blanket for him to borrow.”

Rick was indignant, but Michael just glared. “Let’s just give him some space for now,” he said. “We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Do you think he’s okay?” Rick asked.

Casey snorted.

Michael glared again. “I’ll stay tonight,” he said. “Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”

Earnestly, Rick nodded. “I can stay, too,” he said.

“That’s not necessary,” Michael said. “I’m just going to sleep on the couch. There’s no room for you anyway.”

“Good,” Casey said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “I’ve had to spend enough time here tonight. Without my proper nighttime regimen, I’m going to be functioning at less than 100 percent.”

With that, Casey waited for no further invitation to leave. Instead he made his way to the door and saw himself out.

Rick stared after him, shaking his head. “What’s his problem?”

Michael sighed. “Casey doesn’t exactly do vulnerability,” he said. “You saw how he acted with an old flame. He couldn’t even admit that he had feelings for her.”

“But this is Billy,” Rick said.

“Exactly,” Michael said. “If an old flame could knock him down by two percent, what do you think this whole thing with Billy has done for him?”

Rick considered that. “I’m more worried about Billy,” he said. “Not Casey’s poor emotional coping skills.”

“Point,” Michael said. “But you have to cut him some slack. At least until we get Billy back to a little more normal.”

Sighing, Rick nodded. He looked back toward Billy’s room. “You’re sure he’s alright?”

Michael followed his gaze. “He’s come a long way,” he said. “We’ve just got to remember that.”

“Yeah,” Rick said, sounding resigned. “Yeah.”

“Go home,” Michael said. “Get some sleep.”

“I’ll come by in the morning,” Rick offered.

Michael smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

Rick smiled back, but it was a half hearted effort as he gathered his things and made his way out. Michael watched him go, then sighed again. He busied himself by picking up the rest of the trash, getting things somewhat back in order. Billy wouldn’t care, but it kept him busy, and at this point Michael just needed something to do.

When he was done, he cleaned up the counters one more time before lingering by Billy’s door. Carefully, he pushed it open. The light spilled in, casting strange shadows in the too-clean room. The bed was untouched. 

Frowning, Michael pushed the door open further and saw the lump on the floor.

Billy had taken just one pillow to the floor, and curled up with it, back pressed against the wall even while fully clothed. He was tucked in on himself, looking far too small and still too vulnerable alone in the dark.

Logically, this made sense. Billy had spent months sleeping on the floor, probably on cement and dirt and in his own excrement. Things like a bed would be too unfamiliar for him just yet.

The fact that Billy was sleeping, deep and restful, was really all that mattered.

Still, it was hard to leave him there so Michael snagged the comforter from the bed. Carefully, he draped the blanket over him, making sure to leave his head and shoulder exposed to avoid constricting him at all.

Then he hesitated, watching Billy sleep for a long moment. Finally, he made his way back to the couch, sitting down heavily and blinking sleepily at the ceiling. When he finally fell asleep, it wasn’t quite peaceful but it was as restful as he had been in months.

-o-

Michael had always been readily adaptable. This was part of what made him good at covert operations. He could adjust to almost any situation, falling into new patterns with ease.

While Billy was missing, he’d kept up the steady pattern of checking his intel and keeping up appearances. While Billy was in the hospital, he made sure to come by frequently, balancing his time at work as best he could.

Now that Billy was out of the hospital, things shifted again. Work was more pressing, and Billy was more self sufficient.

That was the theory, anyway. Really, Michael found that people just expected that self sufficiency, making work more demanding while Billy’s needs stayed much the same.

Not exactly the same, though. Now instead of reading to a vacant stare, Michael would make sure Rick was there to drive Billy to physical therapy in the mornings. He always called Billy during lunch, and showed up in time to escort Billy to counseling. He picked up dinner most nights, but ventured to cook some others, keeping house and maintaining order. He did the laundry and laid out Billy’s meds, double checking to make sure he took each one at its proper time.

They all took turns with staying the night -- almost an unspoken agreement -- and Billy’s couch became worn in all the right places. Michael started making checklists to leave around the suite: go to the bathroom, take a shower, shave. Get dressed, eat breakfast, make bed. He took to posting them on Billy’s wall, leaving copies for Rick and Casey, just to be sure.

The lists seemed to help, actually. Billy was best when things were decided for him, and the simple list of tasks seemed to be something he could at least accomplish. That could only help, Michael figured. If Billy needed to rebuild his sense of self, he had to start with the basics.

Michael just hadn’t counted on how basic that would be.

Though, really, Michael hadn’t counted on a lot of things.

-o-

Things did get better, though. At physical therapy, Billy regained almost his full range of motion. He could make a fist and spread his fingers out. He learned to hold a pencil properly, and though his penmanship was still questionable, Michael took comfort in the fact that it had never been that stellar to begin with. The therapist said Billy could try the guitar sometime, when he felt up to it.

He was also regaining a little bit of stamina, though not too much. He was able to perform all the tasks asked of him without getting too winded, but he still looked dangerously skinny to Michael. Billy would need to focus on regaining weight and start building muscle mass, but for now, Michael would take his victories where he could.

The speech therapy was less successful, if only because Billy no longer had anything to say. It was painfully ironic, really. All the times they’d threatened to make Billy shut up, and now Michael would give anything to hear him prattle nonsensically. Michael missed hearing his jokes. He missed the literary references. He even missed the overly dramatic poetry he used to recite at the end of missions.

But he could recreate the sounds right and his jaw was in working order.

They all concurred: Billy was finally getting better.

-o-

Except when he wasn’t.

If the physical therapists all had glowing reports, the psychologist was increasingly vocal in her concerns. She’d singled Michael out as Billy’s presumptive next of kin, and although she kept the details of Billy’s sessions strictly confidential, she routinely kept in touch with Michael regarding things to look for and ways to help Billy.

“Continue to engage him,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed he responds best to direct questioning.”

Michael nodded. “Even then, he doesn’t like to say much.”

“And we need to respect that,” she said. “We have to remember Billy was tortured. During this process, he was repeatedly asked for information and incurred pain and injury when he did not comply. So his silence, while disconcerting, needs to be respected in order for Billy to regain his sense of self.”

“But it’s not healthy, is it?” Michael asked. “I mean, Billy’s never been one to be quiet.”

Her smile was sympathetic. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I don’t suppose Billy has ever been inhumanly tortured before, has he?”

To that, Michael had no reply.

She gathered a breath and let it out, retaining the utmost in professionalism. “You need to understand that Billy isn’t doing this to frustrate you, no matter how frustrating it may actually be,” she said. “The human mind has amazing capacity. It can also be our biggest limitation. Billy has been through more than we can imagine. This is likely to get worse before it gets better, and you need to be on board with that, no matter what.”

Michael was pretty sure he’d passed no matter what, way back when Billy woke up sobbing, when Billy stared vacantly at a wall for three months, when he found Billy in a squalid cell, when Billy went missing without a trace.

The psychologist meant well, but she couldn’t know where they’d been. Not like Michael did.

It had to get better.

-o-

Casey was never one for small talk, but the phone call was short even for him. 

“Come,” he said. “ _Now._ ”

Michael frowned, already pushing out of his seat and moving for the door. “Is he okay?”

“That depends on your definition of _okay,_ ” was Casey’s terse reply.

Michael picked up his pace, not quite jogging but moving through the CIA corridors at a good clip. “What happened?” he asked, focusing his fear and channeling it to concentration.

“You know I’m not prone to hyperbole,” Casey said harshly. “So when I say _now_ \--”

“I get it, I get it,” Michael muttered, flashing his ID as he slipped out the front. “ _Now._ ”

-o-

Michael managed not to break too many traffic laws on his way over, but by the time he got to Billy’s hotel, his heart was pounding and his palms were sweaty. He killed the engine and climbed out, not bothering to lock it as he jogged inside and up the familiar path to Billy’s room.

The clerk at the front desk tried to greet him, but Michael ignored him, and he almost flattened Deborah, the weekday maid, as he hurried. He had the keys out before he got to Billy’s door, fumbling only slightly as he unlocked the door and went inside.

He had been expecting disaster.

So the undisturbed scene left him at something of a loss.

Everything looked exactly as it had this morning when Michael had left. The dishes from breakfast were cleaned and stacked neatly on the side while the boxes of fresh takeout still let off a slight Asian aroma. There was a book laid open on the table -- something about martial arts, which meant Casey had been reading, not Billy -- and there were two glasses of water on the coffee table.

Then, Michael heard it.

The keening noise was hard to hear over the chugging air conditioner and the sound of the vacuum cleaner a floor up. But now that he was listening, his focus shifted as he followed the sound.

Turning, he looked toward the bedroom where Casey was standing, ramrod straight in the doorway. He still had his phone clutched in his hand, knuckles white as he stared.

“Casey,” Michael said, moving closer. “What--”

Then he saw Billy.

He was curled up, backed up into the corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was only half dressed, the sweatpants barely hanging onto his still too skinny frame. His shirt was gone for some reason, and his eyes weren’t vacant, but they had an eerily distant look while he rocked back and forth, his head hitting against the wall intermittently.

He was crying, too, cheeks wet, and the goosebumps on his exposed skin were visible even from the doorway.

Then Michael realized the keening noise _was_ Billy, his lips moving in a desperate, mechanical fashion. At first Michael thought Billy was speaking gibberish, but after a moment he recognized the whimpers and groans were forming words. “ _Pozhaluĭsta, prekratite . Pozhaluĭsta, ya proshu vas , pozhaluĭsta , prekratite,_ ” Billy repeated over and over like a mantra. 

It turned Michael’s stomach cold, and he had to fight not to shudder. He glanced at Casey. “What’s he saying?”

Casey was white as a sheet, his expression inscrutable. He paused for a moment. “ ‘Please stop. Please, I beg you, please stop,’” he translated, and Michael could detect the faintest hint of strain in Malick’s voice. 

A flashback. It was hard for Michael to imagine, Billy cornered in a cell, begging this way. If it was hard watching him plead with his demons, the idea of him groveling at actual humans was even worse. And that his pleas had been denied...

Michael couldn’t think about it. “How long has he been like this?”

“Does it matter?” Casey said.

“What set it off?” Michael asked.

“How the hell should I know,” Casey snapped, finally tearing his gaze from Billy. He gestured angrily toward Billy. “This is a bit outside my job description.”

The anger was raw, but Michael saw it for the thin veil that it was, just barely covering his fear. 

Inside the room, Billy gasped and flailed, lashing out at an invisible enemy. The garbled words sounded Ukrainian, but Michael couldn’t make them out.

Not that he needed to.

“And here we go again,” Casey said.

Inaction was not what Michael did. Any mission, any task, he would complete it.

But going inside, approaching Billy as he fought against the memories, might have been his hardest one yet.

-o-

It took some coaxing, but finally Billy fell asleep, half in Michael’s arms. It was awkward shifting Billy to the bed, but the Scot barely stirred as Michael made the transition. Instead, he curled up in the fetal position before settling down into a restless sleep.

In the main room, he found Casey perched on the edge of the couch. He was sitting stiffly, elbows on his knees as he stared out across the room.

“How long can we do this, Michael?” Casey asked.

Michael’s throat felt tight. “It isn’t his fault,” he said.

Casey turned to him. “Yeah?” he said. “Because it’s not mine either and we’re the ones who are paying for it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Michael asked, his frustration fraying at the vestiges of his control.

Casey stood up, giving Michael a cool look. “I don’t know,” he said. He paused, tilting his head. “Then again, that’s not my job.”

-o-

Taking care of Billy was more work than ever. Now that he was awake and expected to perform daily tasks that didn’t involve staring and sleeping, he was turning out to be a full time job.

In general, Michael would grant him that. He’d taken three months to find Billy, so this was mostly his fault, but there was still the small problem that Michael already _had_ a full time job. More than that, Michael didn’t just work as a spy, he _lived_ as one. After his divorce from Fay, keeping his personal life separate from his professional life hadn’t really been so difficult. Namely, because he didn’t have much of a personal life to separate out. 

With Billy’s release from the hospital that changed entirely.

Even so, Michael was managing. Rick was always more than willing to help, and it didn’t take much to guilt Casey into compliance, even if the older operative tended to grumble his way through his assigned turn with Billy.

Despite all this, it was probably inevitable that they would have to leave him alone at some point. There had been a few minutes here and there, when Michael was stepping out to find a maid or went down to the front desk to complain about the latest noisy tenants down the hall. The hours of therapy provided some reprieve, but eventually, the realities of their job had to catch up with them.

Especially since it was Morovia. 

That place couldn’t leave Michael and his team alone, and as much as he wanted to leave it behind, he felt the need to rectify that mess as much as ever. In many ways, he needed to fix it as best he could, even if it was a poor substitute for the fact that he couldn’t fix Billy so easily.

Though, fixing Morovia wasn’t exactly easy either.

“I expect your team to be there,” Higgins told him over the phone. “This latest batch of intel is most pressing and I need all eyes on this.”

“We’ll be there,” Michael promised, rocking back in his chair and glancing at his calendar. Rick was with Billy now, and Michael was slated to stop by in thirty minutes to take care of Billy’s dinner.

“ _All three_ of you,” Higgins clarified. “Now.”

Michael pursed his lips, trying to think up the best leverage to weasel his way out of the not-so-friendly request. 

“I respect your dedication to your teammate, but you still have a job to do,” Higgins said sternly, the warning implicit in his tone. “And I think you, more than anyone, should understand just how important it is to have all every resource available focused on the situation in Morovia.”

It was something of a low blow, and Michael would resent Higgins for it, except that the director was right.

Sighing, Michael flipped his calendar shut, so the glaring need wouldn’t distract him. “Yes, sir,” he said.

-o-

Rick, unsurprisingly, objected. “But what if he needs something?”

“You left out dinner,” Michael reminded him. “The schedule is posted all over the house. And I’ll go over as soon as our meeting is done.”

Casey snorted. “At some point, it’s sink or swim,” he said. “We’ll have to leave him on his own sooner or later.”

Rick glared at him.

Michael patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Trust me.”

-o-

The good news was that the meeting was so important that there wasn’t much time to think about how Billy was faring.

The bad news was that the meeting was so important that Michael knew it was almost time to act.

The images were plain. Armed men in the square, touting guns above their head in victory. Bloodied victims lying in the streets. Civilians looting burned out stores.

“These images have starting showing up at the news outlets,” Fay said. “We’re working to verify them, but there’s no reason to doubt them.”

Michael stared, feeling a bit nauseous. 

“So much for democracy,” Casey quipped.

Michael flipped through them again, shaking his head. “Illyich said it was bad, but he didn’t seem to think anything would change this quickly.”

“Illyich also tells us that he sells genuine artifacts and not cheap plastic knockoffs,” Casey said derisively.

“For once, I agree with Operative Malick,” Higgins said. “We’ve had a massive intelligence failure that we didn’t properly see this coming.”

“And we’re sure it’s the Narodny Dzida?” Rick asked.

Fay pulled up some images to the computer screen. “We’ve gotten reports from foreign agencies that General Vereychek has staged the coup,” she said. “He’s visible in some of the images.”

Michael sorted them again, noting the man in full military garb, standing triumphantly on the steps to the smoking capitol. He knew the name and he could ID the photos on his own. While trying to stage a rescue operation, Vereychek had been one of the most constant names to come up for his leadership within the group and his strong ties to Borogev’s regime.

“The good news is that there seemed to be minimal civilian casualties,” Fay continued. “A few dozen pro-democracy protestors were caught in the crossover, but there have been no widespread deaths so far.”

“Any word on the elected officials?” Michael asked.

Fay shook her head. “Capitol security seemed to give up without much fight. Whatever portion of the military directly controlled by the elected government is either ineffectual or fighting for the other side. We do think it’s a good sign we haven’t seen any apparent casualties amongst the parliament.”

“I’m not optimistic,” Casey said wryly. He looked more comfortable sitting there, at the briefing table, than Michael had seen him in weeks. “We know how well they treat their captives.”

Michael’s stomach churned. He put the photos down. “I don’t mean to sound heartless,” he said, “but how is this any different from where we were before this happened? One military bastard for another?”

“Because,” Fay said. “Vereychek has consistently expressed the desire to expand. He’s pushed for years to improve the military forces and defense capabilities in Morovia. He’s single-handedly tried to jumpstart a nuclear program more than once in recent year. Now that he’s in power...”

“We’re looking at the rise of the next Iran,” Casey said with a smirk. “Quaint.”

“These images are fresh,” Rick pointed out. “How do we know that the coup will stick?”

“We don’t,” Fay said. “In countries this volatile, power shifts happen rapidly and the Narodny Dzida has momentum but still lacks control over all the militias.”

“Which is why we need more information,” Higgins interjected pointedly. “We have to be prepared for all contingencies, and if we can nip this in the bud, so to speak--”

“Then we might be able to avert the rise of an oppressive and militaristic regime in an already destabilized area of the world,” Michael concluded grimly. “I get it.”

“Then you’ll also get why I’m concerned about our lack of intelligence,” Higgins said.

“We have an asset,” Michael said.

“Who somehow managed to not know that the Narodny Dzida was plotting a coup,” Higgins countered.

Michael worked his jaw, refusing to admit that Higgins was right. “Let me contact Illyich,” he said. “Let’s see how serious this uprising is and if it’s going to stick.”

“Then do it,” Higgins said. “But if things are getting worse...”

Michael waved his hand, pushing away from the table. “Right,” he said, moving toward the door. “Though all things considered, I think we’ve already seen the worst.”

-o-

“We should have been there,” Casey said as they left the briefing.

“There’s no way of knowing if we could have stopped anything,” Rick said.

“Uprisings don’t just _happen,_ ” Casey said.

“Actually, they do,” Rick said. “We don’t even know for sure if that’s what this is.”

“Just wait until this gets picked up by CNN,” Casey told him. “Then everyone in the world will be watching Morovia, like we should have been since the beginning.”

Michael turned sharply toward the exit, looking back at his teammates with a shake of his head. “Enough,” he said. “We should have done a lot of things, but we can’t change that now. All we can do is fix what we can.”

“So you’re leaving?” Casey said.

“Start going over the new images and cross reference what you can,” Michael said. “Get ahold of Illyich and chew his friendly ass out until he comes clean about what he knew and what he knows now. In the morning, I want a clearer picture of what’s going on over there, and I expect far more detail than what they’re going to get from CNN. Tap tech, see if we can monitor social networking updates from the region.”

“And what about Billy?” Rick asked.

Michael smiled a little. “I’ll go check on him and get back as soon as I can,” he said. 

“We could be looking at the rise of an autocratic regime,” Casey reminded him.

“Relax,” Michael said, shrugging easily. “It’ll just be a few hours. We’ll reconvene in the morning, no big deal.”

If Rick or Casey doubted him, Michael didn’t hang around long enough to see.

-o-

It was getting late by the time Michael left CIA headquarters and made it through all the traffic on the parkway. He was tired, but took the exit toward Billy’s motel anyway. He’d confirmed with the other two members of the ODS that he’d check on Billy that night, to see how he’d been getting on by himself, and really the routine wasn’t all that different from all the trips he’d made to the hospital over the past couple of months.

He knocked on the door, loudly and clearly. “Billy, it’s Michael,” he announced: he’d seen the way Billy flinched and sometimes outright recoiled at doors. “I grabbed some takeout on the way from Langley. I know how much you like Mushu pork.”

He waited for the door to open. It remained resolutely shut.

“Billy, you in there?”

Michael frowned, putting the bag of takeout down and pulling out his cell. He dialed Billy’s number, and after a few seconds, heard the muted ring from inside the room. He very much doubted Billy would have left the motel, and if he had, he’d have at least brought his phone with him, Michael was sure of that. But Billy wasn’t answering the door, and apart from the beeping of the phone, there wasn’t a sound. 

He swallowed. “Billy, I’m coming in,” he announced, pulling out his keys and finding the spare he’d had the super give him back when Billy had been missing in action. He got the lock open and stepped in, takeout bag in one hand, and the other on the handle of his gun. 

“Billy?”

The room was empty. Michael put the food down on the coffee table, trying to suppress a rising sense of inexplicable dread and pulling out his weapon. “Billy?” he repeated, a bit louder and a bit more urgently. The overhead lights were off but there was a lamp in the corner that was on. That, and the light spilling out of the half-open bathroom door provided the only illumination.

He scanned the room for any sign of Billy or an intruder. Billy wasn’t in the sitting area, and neither was he in the bed – or the nest of sheets on the floor beside it. There was hardly any sign the room had been disturbed; there was hardly any sign it was even lived in, which was a far cry from the usual mess Billy had always left in his wake. Michael grimaced, then took a step toward the bathroom, ignoring the growing sense of apprehension.

He opened the door.

Then swore, dropping his gun to the ground with a clatter and falling to his knees –

-o-

Tired. Billy had been so tired. They hadn’t let him sleep. Bright light, burning his retinas, the incessant blaring of the klaxon in his cell – no, no that wasn’t the klaxon, it was a car horn from out on the street. But it made him tense at any rate, and he was still so tired. Even the dim lamp was too bright, but he couldn’t bear the darkness either.

He just wanted to sleep. (Why couldn’t he have that?)

He’d tried curling up in the bed. It had been too big and soft. He’d pulled the sheets off onto the floor, which was harder, colder; it was more familiar. But every time he closed his eyes, he lost his tentative grasp of his surroundings: the sound of the maid pushing her cleaning cart down the hall became the sound of the Commander’s men coming for him. The muted laughter of the woman in the next room transformed into the cries of a fellow captive. The hissing of the air vent when the heat turned on became the sizzling of his own skin as his tormentors held him down and burned him... And then he’d sit up, gasping for air, heart pounding as he reflexively moved to check his injuries, only to find trace amounts of scar tissue where there had been pus and blood and torn flesh. 

And he’d remind himself that he was home. He’d been rescued. He was free (he’d never be free. Not really).

But he still couldn't sleep. Every time he tried, he was back in Morovia. Every time he succeeded, the nightmares were even worse. He raided the mini-bar, drinking most of a bottle of something wine-like until he felt warm and numb and the room seemed to dip back and forth. But even then, it wasn’t enough.

Blissful, dreamless sleep. It was all he wanted (t’was a consummation devoutly to be wished).

And when he found himself lying immobile on the bathroom floor, watching the fogging of each breath on the shiny white tile as the light grew pleasantly dim, he felt nothing but relief...

-o-

“Martinez.”

“Rick, it’s Michael. Get an ambulance sent to Billy’s motel, now.”

“What? What happened? Is he--?”

“Just do it!” Michael snapped, ending the call and dropping his phone. “Billy? Billy, stay with me, come on –”

His heart had nearly stopped in those first few seconds after he’d found Collins sprawled out on the bathroom floor, motionless, an empty bottle of wine on the floor beside him and an empty bottle of sleeping pills in his hand. His face had been white, a small amount of pale and watery vomit pooled next to him. Michael had sought frantically for a pulse. He wasn’t going to lose Billy, not again. Not here, not now, not ever. “There is no way you’re dying in a motel bathroom, you idiot,” he’d seethed, lightly (and then not-so-lightly) smacking Billy’s face. “Wake up!”

And Billy had twitched, groaning and rolling his head aside; the relief had been enough to snap Michael out of shock long enough to call Martinez and bark orders at him.

“Just stay with me,” he repeated, pulling Billy’s head and shoulders onto his lap, grabbing a towel from the rack to wipe the trickle of spew from Billy’s face. Billy coughed wetly, and Michael rolled him onto his side. “Come on, Billy–”

Billy coughed and spat onto the floor, groaning. He rolled his head back, and his eyes fluttered open. “M’chl?” he slurred.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Michael replied, his panic abating, but anger sweeping swiftly into its place. “What the hell, Billy? I mean, dammit, what the hell?”

“I... I was tired...” Billy mumbled, eyelids drifting back shut. “I jes’... wanted t’sleep...”

It was quite possibly the most words Billy had said in a row since his release from the hospital. But once they left his lips, he fell conspicuously and gut-wrenchingly silent.

“Hey, stay with me now. Billy?” Michael shook him, but Billy’s eyes remained shut. “Oh no you don’t. Billy? Billy!”

-o-

Michael was pacing when Rick burst into the waiting room. The younger operative was flushed and out of breath, having clearly sprinted all the way from the parking lot.

“Is he–?” Rick stopped, panting for breath.

Michael swallowed. “They’re pumping his stomach right now.” 

“Pumping...” Rick frowned. “What happened?”

A downward glance. “Overdose.”

The word sunk in for a moment. Michael didn’t need to look up to know exactly what the expression would be on Martinez’s face. First confusion, his brows knitting together and upward; then surprise, his eyes widening; then more confusion, mixed with rejection, his mouth falling open slightly as he shook his head faintly; and finally stunned disbelief as he dropped into the waiting room chair. 

“Shit,” he mumbled. Michael could only nod.

A nurse in scrubs emerged from the swinging doors. “Dorset?” she asked, sparing a glance at the chart in her hand.

“That’s me,” Michael replied, hurriedly.

She signalled for him to approach while Rick sat and stared at the wall with that same lost look on his face. Michael complied, stepping aside with her.

“The good news is Mr. Collins’ physical prognosis is good. The doctors emptied his stomach, but there wasn’t a lot in there. EMTs said there was vomit at the scene, so I’m thinking he probably purged enough to avoid a lethal overdose, though I’m concerned about his blood alcohol level. We’ll be monitoring his vitals closely for the next several hours, and administering charcoal, but he should pull through okay.”

Michael nodded numbly. This was good news. Not that he would have accepted any other kind of news; the possibility that after all this, he’d lose Billy to a bottle of damn pills in a motel bathroom... it was unacceptable. It wasn’t even an option. “Thank you,” he managed to say, ignoring the strained quality of his voice. “When can we take him home?”

The nurse bit her lip. “Well, that’s the other thing. Once he’s released from intensive care, Mr. Collins will be on a forty-eight hour psychiatric watch. It’s a standard procedure for suicide attemp–”

“It wasn’t a suicide attempt!” Michael snapped. The nurse started, and over in the chair Rick looked up at him. He forced himself to swallow. “He was confused. He’s been... having trouble readjusting.”

The nurse didn’t seem eager to argue the point. “Be that as it may, he’s stuck here for forty-eight hours as a matter of procedure. You can take it up with his physician. In the meantime, it’ll be a while, so I suggest getting something for you and your friend from the cafeteria while you wait. It’s down the hall and –”

“We know the way, thanks.” Michael turned away and sat down next to Rick as the nurse took her leave.

The silence that descended between the two men was oppressive. It was Michael who finally broke it. “Where’s Malick?”

Rick shrugged. “I left him a voicemail. He didn’t pick up when I called.”

Michael grunted. Silence crept back in, slow and thick.

“You don’t think Billy really...?”

“No.”

A pause. Rick looked down, then back up. “Yeah, me neither. I mean, he wouldn’t...”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Michael tone bore a finality that indicated the conclusion of that line of conversation.

The minutes ticked by.

-o-

They always asked the same questions.

“What is your name?”

Billy blinked, trying to remember. It was taking too long, taking so long. (What’s in a name?)

“Can you tell me your name?”

Billy still couldn’t remember. He knew the answer. He _knew._ But he couldn’t remember if it was okay to tell, if it was okay not to tell, if anyone actually still cared. (A rose by any other name...)

“Sir?”

Billy shuddered and managed to focus his eyes, flinching for a blow. When he was too slow, it was a minor offense, but they still punished him. A broken finger, a missing nail--

“Sir?”

Billy’s eyes could see but he finally understood. This wasn’t the same. These weren’t the same people. This was a small woman, blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked worried.

“Your name, sir?”

Billy’s breath caught in his throat. The answers wouldn’t make sense anyway. Nothing made sense.

And it was hard to think. Harder than normal. Everything was hazy and there was a funny taste in his mouth and his arm was numb and he was warm.  
 _  
Billy, Vasili, Operative Collins._ (Wherefore art thou?)

“I need you to tell me your name.”

And Billy closed his eyes. This was different from the adrenalin they’d given him. Maybe it was better. Maybe it was worse. He wanted to spit but couldn't get saliva into his mouth, couldn’t make the headache ebb from the fringes of his vision. This was new, what they’d done to him. It made it hard to think, hard to see straight, hard to focus.

Friends were foes were friends again. Different names, same people. Different ends, same methods.

And they always asked the _same questions_ because none of them realized that the answers didn’t matter anymore.

-o-

When Casey turned up, he was in casual clothing, his hair damp and uncombed. Rick filled him in and Michael stared down at a magazine he couldn’t bring himself to actually read. He heard Casey curse, the older operative’s sense of control clearly beginning to fray.

The nurse came to tell them that Billy was being transferred out of the ICU, but would require further monitoring, and that he wasn’t allowed visitors just yet. So the three remaining members of the ODS finally took her advice and cleared the waiting room in order to stake out a table in the largely-deserted hospital cafeteria.

“We can’t leave him alone.” Rick was the first to address the elephant in the room. “I mean, he was by himself for less than a day.”

“He needs a babysitter,” Casey mumbled, glowering down at a slice of pizza. The grease was beginning to congeal atop the cheese.

Michael said nothing.

Rick chewed his lip. “Ok, we’ll make a schedule. Like when he was in the hospital, only more organized. We’ll work around who has him at different points –”

“And when we’re working? We’re spies, Martinez, not nannies,” Casey spat. “We have jobs to do.”

“Taking care of Billy is our job! He’s our friend, and he needs us to help him get better,” Rick protested.

And Michael saw the look on Casey’s face – the ire and disgust mixed with repressed but not entirely invisible fear – and knew what he was about to say next. _What if there is no better._ What if this was as good as things were going to get?

Once again, it was a possibility that was simply unacceptable. So Michael intervened. “You’re both right.” That stopped the argument in its tracks, giving him a moment to sort out his thoughts. “Billy needs us. He can’t be alone. He needs someone with him, and we can’t do this on our own.” He took a breath, because now he was back to establishing a plan. And planning was what Michael thrived at doing. “Which is why we’re not going to. Billy has made a lot of friends in his time at the agency beyond just the ODS, and we’re going to call in some favors. Martinez, talk to your girlfriend, see if she’s willing to cover for you when we’re overseas. Malick, get Blanke on board. It’s not like he has anything better to do. I’ll talk to Fay.”

Rick looked satisfied. Casey appeared at least mollified, though his agitation remained apparent. 

“We’re going to get through this. All four of us,” Michael reiterated.

For their benefit as much as his own.

-o-

The next time he woke, Billy knew he’d gotten it wrong. Before, he’d been wrong. Not just in Morovia, but here.

The hospital.

The hospital wasn’t home, but it was familiar. Home was a motel room. Home was a small cell with stone walls and no more light--

But it was light here, and Billy knew he’d gotten it wrong. Because he wasn’t in a cell and he wasn’t in his motel room, he was in the hospital.

And he was being watched.

This didn’t bother him. Billy had learned how to mostly be invisible when he wanted to be, how to stop being human and just taking up space. He could be like the lamp or the chair or the beeping monitor. Useful. Expendable.

He should have answered the question.

The woman in the chair was someone he knew. She didn’t talk about literature with him. She also didn’t carry knives and blunt instruments.

“Hello, Billy,” she said simply.

Billy frowned.

She smiled in return. “Do you know where you are?”

Billy took a moment and looked around. He nodded.

“Good,” she said. Her voice was simple, a little monotone. Her inflection was too careful. “Do you remember why you are here?”

Because someone took him here. He couldn’t remember that, but the simple act of getting out of bed was almost more than he could face.

But that wasn’t what she was talking about. They didn’t like it when he answered the question right and wrong all at once. 

No knives. No blunt instruments.

Just a banal stare.

Billy wanted to sleep.

Then, he remembered. He wanted to sleep.

“So you do remember?” she asked.

He flinched, looking back at her in surprise. It wasn’t fair, asking questions she knew the answer to.

“You can’t take the pills with alcohol,” she said. “You’ve been told that.”

Billy had been told a lot of things. Billy had been told to talk. He’d been told to sit up and to eat. He’d been told things would be better if he just told them what he knew. He’d been told things would be better if he just trusted.

People were liars.

People were bad.

People didn’t understand.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Billy stared at her, trying to understand the question. Because he could piece together enough to know what happened -- the alcohol had been warm and the pills had promised sleep -- but it was the question that didn’t make any sense. Billy knew a thing or two about questions. Billy knew what made a good question. Something that prompted clear, concise answers. Something with actionable gain.

This question didn’t do any of that.

This question--  
 _  
Do you want to tell me what happened?  
_  
But Billy didn’t want to do anything. Because Billy didn’t even remember how. Want was a foreign concept. Chairs didn’t want to be sat in. Beds didn’t want to be made. Billy didn’t want to answer the question because Billy didn’t have the right to want anything.

Except escape. They couldn’t take that desire from him, no matter what they did. If Billy wanted anything, Billy just wanted to sleep.

And sleep and sleep and sleep until he never had to wake up again.

“If you want to talk, you know I’m still here,” she said.

Billy’s breath hitched painfully, and he surrendered that want to. No sleep. No reprieve. No answers. Just nothing.

Always nothing.


	7. VI. Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic violence; original character death.

  
VI.  
Realization  


_  
After they tore several of Billy’s teeth out, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. The awful coppery taste of it filled his throat and crept up into his sinuses, reeking of burnt pennies. He swallowed mouthfuls of his own blood, gagging on it as it went down and choking on it when it came back up. It took a force of will to keep from prodding the gaping holes with his tongue._

_It had been over a week since he had slept. Exhaustion settled deep into his bones and the light and the alarm both frayed at his nerves until he could do little more than lie curled up on the floor, trembling, squeezing his eyes shut against the glaring light of the naked bulb and cradling his mangled hands to his chest, eventually rolling over enough to spit out the mouthfuls of blood. The floor of his cell was stained rusty-brown with it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care._

_Broken fingers. Missing nails. Missing teeth. They were whittling away at him._

_The alarm blared and he groaned, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his jaw. He was so tired. The world around him had become surreal and distant, until the only real thing, the only solid, tangible, present thing, was the pain._

_And it was his constant companion._

_The door opened with a metallic clang and he flinched, reflexively pulling away despite the futility. The guards grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, one of them grabbing his shattered hand, eliciting a yelp._

_The pain was constant. And it was always fresh._

_He stumbled when he walked now, so the guards had to half-march, half-carry him down the hall. They brought him to one of the interrogation chambers and dropped him into a metal chair, opposite where the Commander was sitting._

_“You are not looking so well, my friend,” the Commander remarked with false concern._

_Billy mumbled something._

_“I am sorry, but I am having difficulty hearing you.”_

_“I said, sod off, mate,” Billy announced a bit louder, his voice thick from trying to talk around his extracted teeth._

_The Commander sighed. “How uncharacteristically ineloquent of you. I must say, I am disappointed.”_

_Billy grunted. “How’s ‘bout we skip this bit an’ go right to th’ part where you torture me an’ I dun tell you anything?” he slurred._

_The Commander smiled. “My apologies for taking up your time; I was unaware that you had somewhere urgent to be.” He turned and nodded to the guard beside him, who left the room. “I am wanting to talk to you about something different, today.”_

_Billy said nothing._

_“You know why we are keeping you here, yes?”_

_Billy said nothing._

_“It is because I have hope. I believe in you – in your potential to be useful. Some of my men, well, they are thinking I am perhaps too much of an optimist.” He grinned and shrugged. “But I am a very positive man. And I believe that some day, you will have use to me. And that is why you are here, and why you are still alive. Because, you see, I am not in the habit of keeping things that have no use. It is a bad habit; it is... what is the word? Inefficient. If something has no potential value, or if it ceases to be useful– ah! Here we are!”_

_The door opened behind him and Billy resisted the initial urge to turn until he heard a muffled and familiar cry. Only then did he crane his neck to look and see –_

_“–Tsykalov,” he murmured, the pit of his stomach sinking._

_The professor was blinking furiously in the light of the interrogation room. He looked even thinner and more haggard than Billy remembered from his last glimpse of him, and the entire side of his face was covered in fresh, livid bruises. He turned toward Billy, confusion etched in his features. “Vasili?”_

_The Commander clapped his hands together. “Well isn’t this a charming reunion?”_

_Tsykalov looked like hell, though Billy knew he probably didn’t present a pretty picture either. “Why is he here?” he managed to ask, tearing his gaze away from his friend’s worn and battered face._

_“Ah yes, I digress... As I was saying,” the Commander examined his nails nonchalantly as the guards dropped Tsykalov, who fell to his knees. “The professor here, proved to be quite useful for some time. However, of late he has decided to be... difficult. Not of use. It is, to say the least, frustrating to me.”_

_Billy stole a sideways glance at Tsykalov, who smiled defiantly. It was a brave gesture, but did nothing to assuage Billy’s growing apprehension._

_“You see,” the Commander continued, “he has somehow reached the decision to not do the thing which has made him useful to us. How he came by this decision, I am not knowing, but I have idea, yes?” He raised an eyebrow, but Billy didn’t respond. “This is a problem for me, yes?”_

_Billy looked back over at Tsykalov. A decision not to be useful... The mistranslations! He’d nearly forgotten about Tsykalov’s plan to tell their captors the wrong information. He’d warned him, if he were discovered... And now they’d found him out, and likely knew Billy was somehow the reason. He suppressed a chill. “I’m sure it’s all jes’ a misunderstanding,” he said cautiously._

_“Oh, there has been misunderstanding, this is true. But not on this point.” The Commander replied, a bit tersely, reaching toward the holster at his hip._

_“Vasili,” Tsykalov repeated, voice hoarse. “Do not fret.” He smiled. “I am as free–”_

_The words were cut short by the deafening ring of a gunshot. Tsykalov jerked, then fell bonelessly to the ground, eyes still open but staring at nothing as fragments of skull and bits of grey matter dripped down the wall behind him._

_For a moment, Billy simply stared as the echoes of the shot reverberated into silence._

_Tsykalov._

_His friend._

_Then something clicked. “NO!” he screamed, throwing himself at the Commander even as the other man raised his gun again. But one of the guards stepped in before he could even get close, catching him with a brutal punch across the jaw that made stars explode in his vision even as he heard something crack and shift. He crumpled to the floor, gasping, hardly able to breathe for the pain..._

_“As I said, I do not suffer uselessness,” the Commander repeated, looking down at him disdainfully._

_Over on the floor, two meters away, Tsykalov lay dead, eyes fixed sightlessly on Billy._

_“Polozhite yego v izolyatsii,” the Commander said to one of his men. Billy let the guards haul him back to his feet. Let them carry him down the hall, past his cell, down another hall and down the stairs, where they ultimately deposited him in a dark, fetid cell, before slamming the door, trapping him in darkness._

_And even in the dark, he could still see Tsykalov’s eyes.  
_  
-o-

“Do you want to die?”

The question was blunt, but not without its sympathy. She watched him carefully, assessing his every movement. Billy was used to this. There was a time when it would have bothered him, when he would have put up a front, but there was nothing left to hide.

A few second passed. Billy zoned out, and when he came back to himself, she was still watching him.

“I understand your desire to be silent,” she said. “I can even respect it, but you can probably see how it creates a problem.”

She was conversational in her approach. She talked like they were discussing the weather, not like Billy was in the hospital on a psych hold.

But Billy was in the hospital, because Billy had drunk a bottle of wine and swallowed all the pills he could. He couldn’t remember most of that, but he could still taste the charcoal in his mouth from when they’d saved his life.

Sometimes, he hated them for it.

He blinked; he’d done it again. She was still watching him, but Billy had been somewhere else. He was as free as...

As nothing. Hooked up to IVs and monitors, fed pills twice a day and watched as he ate. They never left him alone, and when he tried to sleep, the IVs kept getting in the way and the soft whir of the monitors distracted him.

“If you’re an ongoing threat to yourself, we have other options,” she explained. “Is that what you tried to do before? Did you try to kill yourself?”

She didn’t have finesse. She was persistent, but not exact. The questions -- _do you want to die and did you try to kill yourself_ \-- they were different. Distinct. Different in important and impossible ways.

Because Billy wanted to die sometimes, but he didn’t try to kill himself.

Because Billy thought about dying all the time, but he didn’t even know how to begin.

“Billy?” she asked, a little pointed now.

The rest fell away for a moment, and he remembered who he was -- _Billy Collins, born and bruised in North Edinburgh._ He remembered his team, and his cell, and Tsykalov -- _do not fret, I am as free--_

Billy charmed people. He charmed his way into the ODS. He charmed Tsykalov to his death. 

Somehow, he lifted his head. If he couldn’t smile, he could still hold eye contact. He wet his lips, holding the palms of his hands flat on his thigh as he breathed in and out, in and out. Somewhere, he found the courage and remembered how to form sounds into words, words into _meaning._

“No,” he said, and his throat was tight, the words almost choked. He swallowed and persisted, forcing his lungs to push air out through his worn vocal cords. “I did not try to kill myself.”

The simple sentence was all he had, and he felt exhausted for it. It hung in the air, lingering a long moment while she continued watching him, waiting.

Finally, though, she nodded. “Okay, then,” she said. Then, she smiled. “That’s very good to know.”

-o-

When the doctor said Billy was free to go, Michael reminded himself that it was good news.

“See,” Rick said, to nobody in particular. “It was just an accident. They know that.”

That was the party line, the one Michael had been repeating to everyone who asked.

Casey, at least, knew better than to vocally disagree, but Michael could read the dour look on his face pretty plainly, not that he intended to call him on it.

“We’ll just be more careful,” Rick said again.

But sometimes Michael wasn’t sure who he was protecting, who he _should_ be protecting. Because he could still see Billy’s white face against the porcelain tiles, the vomit on the floor. No one did that to him, and Michael was still the one left picking up the pieces. He’d do it, because this was still his fault, but sometimes he wondered if he’d ever find all the pieces, much less put them back together again.

“It’ll be better,” Rick said.

Michael smiled grimly. “Of course it will,” he said, hoping that it wasn’t a lie.

-o-

When they got Billy home, it was an awkward homecoming. Casey went into work, but Rick refused to leave. He hovered, shadowing Billy’s every move as they walk him from the car up to the motel room.

This time, there were no streamers. There was no beer in the fridge or pizza on the way. Michael nuked an instant meal while Rick fussed, trying to get Billy to read a book, flip through a magazine, watch a show.

Billy nodded placidly through it all until there was a book on his lap and the TV was on. When Michael brought him dinner, still steaming in the cheap, warped plastic, Billy just stared at it, as if he almost didn’t recognize it.

Part of Michael wanted to throw the damn meal and just run. Because he’d dragged Billy’s emaciated body out of a cell in Morovia, he’d read books to his vacant eyes in the hospital, he’d cradled his overdosed form in the bathroom. Michael had held him when he cried, walked him to bed when he was tired. He’d cooked and cleaned and helped dress him. He’d done it with as much dignity and compassion as he had, but it was _hard._

It was harder than Billy being gone. 

Michael’s throat nearly closed up. It was harder for _him._ For Billy, those three months...

Those three months had turned him from the vibrant man Michael had trusted with his life to _this._ For Billy, nothing could be worse.

And it was easy to be frustrated, but this wasn’t Billy’s fault. Those three months were Michael’s failure, and no matter what he did, he wasn’t sure he could ever make that up to Billy.

A cheap dinner of tasteless food wasn’t even a start.

But for tonight, it was all Michael had.

He sighed as Rick prattled on, sitting down next to Billy. When Rick stopped to take a breath, Michael nodded down at the food. “You’ll want to eat it before it gets cold,” he said. “The heat is the only thing that makes it edible.”

Billy didn’t laugh, but his mended fingers closed awkwardly around the fork. It seemed to take too much concentration, but Billy poked the fork down, scooping a small portion of the mashed potatoes blobbed on the side. In slow, jerky movements, Billy lifted the fork, biting almost tentatively. Then, slowly, Billy chewed before swallowing the mouthful.

He didn’t look at Michael. He didn’t say thank you. But instead, he reached down with his fork for another bite.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

At this point, Michael would take anything.

-o-

Michael was even more vigilant. He never relaxed around Billy, always watching, always assessing. He noted the way Billy’s body stiffened whenever someone approached, the way his shoulders started slumping when he was tired. He saw the way the Scot moved timidly, as if afraid of breaking something -- or himself.

He also began to track the shifts in Billy’s mood. There was a renewed sharpness in his eyes sometimes, when Billy was actually paying attention to something -- often wayward things, a fly buzzing around the room, or the flickering of a lamp as the bulb started to die. He still flinched at loud sounds but tried to hide it, as if he knew he wasn’t supposed to. When there was too much talking, Billy was prone to zoning out, blue eyes going distant as if he just wasn’t there. And sometimes -- for reasons Michael couldn’t quite pinpoint yet -- Billy startled altogether, his cheeks flushing as his heart rate picked up and his pupils dilated.

Tracking these shifts allowed Michael to respond better. He knew when to stop talking and when to start. He knew when a gentle touch would be needed and when space was the best option. Michael had always been good at reading Billy, and that much hadn’t changed even if everything else had.

-o-

Time with Billy was nothing short of exhausting. Unfortunately for Michael, coming to work wasn’t much better.

The situation in Morovia wasn’t improving. The coup was tentatively holding, although the streets were slowly erupting into chaos. Major media outlets were batting around terms like civil war, and Higgins was growing impatient because he didn’t have any intel to suggest whether they were right or wrong.

“We’re supposed to know more than CNN,” he snapped.

It wasn’t that Michael disagreed, he just didn’t know what to do about it. On the phone, Illyich was pretty informative -- if Michael wanted to know nothing of value, that was.

“The streets, they are not friendly, yes?” Illyich said, the line crackling over the distance. “So many people, fighting and looting, carrying guns. I don’t like guns.”

“I can’t help you with the guns unless I know what’s going on,” Michael told him.

“And how should I know?” Illyich said with a whine. “The internet, it goes up and down. Phone lines do not work. We are lucky to have electricity!”

“I thought you had sources!” Michael said, feeling a bit whiny himself.

“But no business,” Illyich said. “Going outside, it is a risk. I cannot support myself if I am dead, yes?”

If he were dead, he wouldn’t need to worry about making money, but Michael had learned that Illyich was less about logic and more about the performance. This was why Billy had been so good with Illyich. They’d spoken the same nonsensical language.

Instead, Michael chose to ignore it. “I can pay you more money, but you’ve got to give me something,” he said. “I need names. Confirmed identities of the leaders. And the more you can tell me about how solidified the movement is--”

“Yes, yes,” Illyich said. “This information, it is difficult to find. Dangerous to turn over. People have -- how do you say -- itch on trigger finger?”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Michael sighed.

“Soon, yes?” Illyich said. “I have so few customers--”

“Not a dime until you give me something tangible,” Michael snapped.

“But my business!”

“Tangible, Illyich,” Michael said, unyielding this time. “Names. Locations. Numbers.”

“But freedom, it is not free,” Illyich wheedled. “That is a saying of you Americans, is it not?”

“Illyich,” Michael growled.

The sigh on the other end was melodramatic. “For you, anything,” he said.

When Michael got off, Rick and Casey were watching him. Blanke was over with Billy, because their work load was getting heavier each day.

Rick didn’t say anything, but Casey quirked his eyebrows up. “Going well, then?”

Michael sighed, tossing his phone on the desk. He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to stretch his tired back. “Illyich is playing games.”

“You don’t think he knows anything?” Rick said.

“I think he could know anything he wanted, but war is getting to him,” Michael replied.

“Armed conflict can make people skittish,” Rick said.

“Or greedy,” Casey added.

Michael let out another breath, and shook his head. “We need to start gathering some alternative sources of information,” he said.

“All our assets in the area have been burned,” Rick said.

“We could always go back,” Casey suggested.

Michael shook his head, preempting the response from Rick. “No, not yet,” he said. “We just need to start getting creative with our sources. Who else would know something about the Narodny Dzida. Think outside of Morovia.”

“Ex-pats, maybe?” Rick offered.

“Some refugees,” Casey added.

“Good,” Michael said. “And look into anyone who’s had any contact with the group, voluntarily or not.”

Rick nodded and Casey inclined his head in tacit agreement.

Michael picked up his files and shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”

-o-

Michael managed.

The day to day wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination, but Michael had never picked the easy things in life. Instead, he kept himself busy enough that he hardly had time to reflect on how precariously all the details of his life were set into place.

The routine was refined and solidified, a round the clock vigil of which Michael carried the brunt. He let other people sit with Billy, but he was still the one to check in with the doctors and therapists, who made daily notes of Billy’s progress.

The detailed findings were reassuring, Michael found. In physical therapy, Billy had a full range of motion in his hands; any lingering issues were entirely psychosomatic. His jaw was healed and the speech therapist had managed to coax him into saying the full range of sounds. The doctor was worried about Billy’s failure to keep putting on weight, but the scars were healing nicely and if they were interested in reducing the appearance, there were several more elective surgeries possible in the future.

Even the psychologist had good reports, and was making notable progress. The periods of vacancy were starting to dwindle a bit, as were the panicked fits. In their place, however, was a growing malaise. Although cognizant, Billy was listless, and no matter what Michael did, he could find nothing to pique Billy’s interest. No book, no memory, no song: Billy shrugged indifferently to all of them, and instead sat on the couch placidly while life went on around him.

Billy still wasn’t saying much, but they’d all started getting brief moments of eye contact and a growing number of monosyllabic answers. Now when Michael asked, “Should we head to bed?” Billy answered, “Okay.” He still wouldn’t pick between two options, but simple affirmations were better than nothing.

And Michael had already had nothing. He didn’t want to go through it again.

So, Michael managed. Day by day. Sometimes hour by hour. Taking each second as it came, holding onto the good things to try forgetting the bad.

-o-

“I spent the entire day in the technical analysis lab,” Rick announced as he walked in, dropping his bag and pulling out his briefcase before the door even shut behind him.

“And?” Michael looked up from where he was sitting in the armchair by the window, lowering his paper. 

Billy, sitting on the couch, glanced in Rick’s direction, but seemed largely disinterested and returned to staring at the book that had been open in his lap, but whose pages, Michael had noted, hadn’t been turned in over twenty minutes. Billy hadn’t been eating much that day, or speaking much, but he was drinking coffee, which seemed like a step in the right direction. Michael had gone out and picked up a bag of sugar, knowing how hideously sweet Billy had always liked his brew.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” Rick continued, retrieving his laptop and its charger from his briefcase, plugging it into the nearest outlet. “Good news is, our guys have been combing the web for any kind of public, civilian intel on what’s happening in Morovia, following up that ex-pat and refugee idea, and there are a couple sources out there that might have some credibility.”

Michael sat up. “Such as?”

“Well, there’s a blogger with a French IP address that’s been reporting on Morovian Civil Rights abuses for the last two years. Outspoken critic of Borogrev, and now Vereychek. A lot of the posts have been deleted, but I had tech pull the archive files from a remote server. The older material is all very accurate, from what we’ve been able to cross-check, so it looks like this could be a potentially reliable source.” Rick opened up the laptop, typing as he spoke, and pulled up several files for Michael to inspect.

He did. And frowned. “This is all in French, Martinez.”

“Oh, right. Well, there’s a mirror site in Ukrainian, but –”

“You said there was good news and bad news,” Michael reminded him. “So if this guy is so accurate, what’s the bad news?”

Rick grimaced. “Well, it turns out our blogger is a Morovian ex-pat who recently petitioned for a received political asylum from the French government.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping. “So in other words, there’s no way the French are going to let us near him.”

Rick offered up a weakly hopeful smile. “Well, I put a call in to Luc and reminded him about the favors the French owe us on account of the Aldridge thing and the Hezbollah controller we helped nab, so he’s going to see what he can do to get us in touch with her.”

This prompted a raised eyebrow from Michael. “Her?”

“Yeah, our blogger’s actually a woman,” Rick explained, hitting a few more keys and pulling up a file. “Apparently her father was a linguist who went missing about a year ago, and she’s been on a digital warpath against the Narody Dzida since. So if Luc can get this Sofia Tsykalova to–”

There was a crash and the clatter of something breaking into pieces.

Michael and Rick stopped short and turned toward Billy, who was standing, one hand slightly outstretched but empty of the ceramic coffee cup that had just tumbled from his fingertips. 

“You all right there, buddy?” Michael asked as Rick immediately moved to grab the roll of paper towels they’d used as napkins during their last evening of shared takeout, attempting to clean up the spilled coffee before it soaked into the carpet. 

Billy’s face was pale, and Michael could see the rapid flickering of his pulse in his throat. “Billy?” he ventured again.

“I’m fine,” Billy finally breathed. For another moment he held still, as if paralyzed – then he turned and headed back toward the bedroom half of the suite.

Rick looked up at Michael, confusion etched on his features as he tried to pick up the shards of the mug.

Michael just shook his head and shrugged. He didn’t know what had set Billy off or why. He didn’t know how to fix it or what to do about it anymore.

So he focused on the thing he did know how to do:

“Good work, Martinez,” he said after Billy shut the door behind him. “We can go over the rest in the morning. Can you draft that up into a briefing for Higgins?”

Rick pursed his lips and nodded. “Already on it.”

Michael gave a strained smile of satisfaction; he wasn’t surprised. Rick was a good operative. Michael had a good team.

He just wished he had his whole team.

-o-

Billy sat on the bed. He hadn’t turned the light on, and now that he was here, he found he couldn’t remember if it was even time to sleep.

Michael had placed sleep on the schedule. An afternoon nap and each night at 10. Billy had learned how to stare at the ceiling long enough that even if he didn’t sleep, it was close enough.

The irony was not lost on Billy. Now that he had a comfortable bed and a dry room, now that there was no one to wake him up, to drag him out, now when he had all the chances in the world, he didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t even know _how._

 _Vasili, don’t fret.  
_  
Billy could still hear him. Not just in his head, but _hear him._ The words, his voice. The accented English over garbled vocal cords. The steady rhythm of his translations through the wall of their cells. The stories, the burgeoning hope.  
 _  
I am free.  
_  
Tsykalov had believed it, in the end. He’d died believing it.

But Billy had been there. Billy had seen his brain splatter on the walls and his dead, sightless eyes. He had seen his body, worthless and spent. 

Tsykalov hadn’t been free. He’d been a hostage, used and abused and ultimately discarded. He’d died in total subjugation. He’d never breathe fresh air; he’d never resume his courses at the university. He’d never talk to his daughter again.  
 _  
I am free.  
_  
That was the lie Billy had told him. He’d had the best intentions, but it’d been just as cruel as the rest. Billy was no better than his captors. Billy offered false hopes and motivated a rebellion that cost a man his life.

Tsykalov was dead, and here Billy was. On a comfortable bed in a safe flat with people who called themselves his mates at his beck and call.

Tsykalov was dead -- sightless eyes still boring into Billy’s brain, always and _always_ \-- and it was Billy’s fault.

Tsykalov was dead.

The cold hard fact was not news, but it still hurt. When so much of his life was numb, this hurt seared through him with an intensity he could hardly control. He choked on the sob in his throat, but squelched it painfully, reigning it back with every ounce of self control he could muster.

Even so, he couldn’t stop the tears. As they started to fall, he curled up on top of the covers, facing away from the door. Burying his face in his pillow, he let it all come out, each wrenching sob more painful than the last.  
 _  
Vasili.  
_  
Because Tsykalov was dead and Billy was alive.  
 _  
Don’t fret.  
_  
Because Tsykalov was dead -- and God help him, Billy wasn’t just sorry or regretful or pained or grieved. Billy was all those things, and more.   
_  
I am free.  
_  
Tsykalov was dead and Billy was _jealous.  
_  
-o-

Casey was rarely _happy_ in a traditional sense. True, Michael had seen him light up from time to time, but that was usually in response to food, women and causing destruction. On a daily basis, Casey mostly existed in degrees of dourness, from mild annoyance to outright ire.

So when Casey turned up at Billy’s the next morning being _not happy,_ it probably shouldn’t have been as big of deal as Michael felt that it was.

But then again, if anyone knew Casey, it was Michael and Billy. With Billy being, well, Billy, that just left Michael to discern the finer points of unspoken Casey-speak.

When he arrived, Casey didn’t knock. Michael had been waiting -- Casey was nearly ten minutes late -- and Casey offered no apology. Instead, he went over to the kitchenette and poured himself a cup of coffee before sitting down in the nearest chair and glaring at the room in general.

“Good morning to you, too,” Michael said.

Casey didn’t humor him with a response.

Michael gathered the last of his things nonchalantly. “Billy’s in the shower,” he said, nodding to the door. It was open, just a little. No locked doors in the suite was a new and unspoken rule. “He’s had a little to eat, but you know how he is.”

“You mean the way he’s entirely neglecting himself and wallowing in some sort of unnatural self-loathing?” Casey asked.

Michael didn’t need to voice a reprimand. Casey was trying to bait him. Instead, he headed to the door. “Fay said she’d be by at lunch.”

Casey just sulked.

MIchael sighed, stopping at the doorway. “If you’ve got something to say, Malick...”

“We have a briefing this morning,” Casey replied flatly.

Michael shrugged. “We have lots of briefings,” he said. “Higgins has been pretty good about cutting us slack.”

“And that’s the problem,” Casey said. “There’s only so much slack to cut. This mission we’re planning isn’t exactly child’s play.”

“I think I know the risks,” Michael snapped.

“Do you?” Casey asked. “Because it seems like we’re spreading ourselves awfully thin. The idea of not leaving behind a man is noble, but it goes for every mission.” The water cut off in the bathroom. Casey lowered his voice. “Not just one.”

His meaning was clear, not that Michael wanted to admit it. Michael was never big on compromises. That had been part of the problem in his marriage. He’d always assumed he was right; he saw no point in believing in things unless he was certain in his own choices. That usually saved his life and the lives of others.

Usually.

He didn’t like to think that maybe he couldn’t save everyone. Especially when his entire team was all right here, readily within his grasp.

Somehow, though, sometimes it felt like they were further away than ever.

Gathering a breath, he sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll send Blanke by when I get in. That way you can be in on time for the briefing. Happy?”

Casey regarded him coolly. “Happy is a generous term,” he said contrarily, but his posture eased just slightly.

Michael rolled his eyes and opened the door. “Just deal with it, Malick,” he said. “That’s all any of us are doing.”

-o-

Michael had never taken any particular joy in meeting with Higgins. Sometimes he found satisfaction in proving the man wrong. And he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit to the fact that he was always looking for new ways to aggravate him. Well, more of a liar.

All that aside, he found briefings to be mostly tedious and with Higgins in charge, they were also scripted with an angle. Higgins had been out for the ODS for years, as if disbanding them would somehow curtail their roguish ways, which would then somehow eliminate potential loose ends in his whole world of covert affairs.

Higgins didn’t want things to be messy, if he could help it. Michael had just come to understand that messy was the only way it worked.

Trying to make two disparate viewpoints see eye to eye was nearly impossible, and yet, the briefings were necessary evils. Now, more than ever.

So Michael endured with as much dignity and reserve as he could.

Not that Higgins was set on making that any easier on him.

Today, after going over the latest round of intelligence reports, he hesitated. This was a private meeting, which Michael had both appreciated and found himself wary of. He didn’t like bringing in extra people -- too much conversation just slowed down the process -- but he also knew that Higgins would only exclude an audience if he had something particular to say. Michael had spent most of the meeting waiting for the other shoe to fall.

And then, it did.

Without much preamble, Higgins announced, “Our sources of intelligence are still spread too thin. We need to re-establish a concrete network in Morovia.”

This had been Higgins aim this entire time, and Michael knew it. Higgins had been the one to pull the plug on all assets in Morovia when Billy went missing, and he’d been the one calling for the daily meetings and increased focus. Michael hadn’t faulted him for that, even if it was a job Michael wasn’t sure his team was ready for.

After all, his team had already sacrificed more than most in Morovia. Billy was functional, but nowhere near field worthy, and he had Casey ready to blow a gasket and Martinez was so distracted that he’d probably be more of a distraction than a help on an actual mission these days.

Even now, Casey was staring overly hard at every file he could get his hands on, almost volunteering for extra duties, no matter how trivial they were. Rick’s eyes were half glazed throughout the meeting, as if being around a vacant Billy had finally worn off on him.

Michael didn’t like Higgins, but he knew the man wasn’t stupid. Higgins knew what he was asking. He knew and he asked it anyway.

Higgins could ask. But Michael could still posture. “We’re going to need time, then,” he said, the offer coming across about as diplomatically as Michael could manage.

Higgins didn’t argue. “Maybe some reinforcements, too.”

Michael shrugged. “We could recruit another team to help out, maybe pull in some other operatives in the surrounding area--”

Higgins shook his head. “This mission is too dangerous for someone with part time knowledge,” he said. “And we can’t risk other operatives in the region; our network is too damaged as it is.”

“Well, then, what did you have in mind?” Michael asked, but the minute he said it, he knew he didn’t want the answer.

“I’m thinking about supplementing the ODS with another team member,” Higgins said, eyeing Michael carefully. His gaze trailed to Rick and Casey, who had learned weeks ago that superfluous conversation within earshot of another other, much less Higgins, was less than ideal.

“After trying to disband us for years, you want to give us an extra team member?” Michael asked.

“The last year have shown me that the ODS is best as a four-man operation,” Higgins said.

The compliment was almost sincere. Except for the fact that they _were_ a four-man operation. Michael shook his head. “Billy’s still a part of this team,” he said, all traces of humor gone.

Higgins didn’t look surprised. He continued in a measured tone. “Operative Collins will continue to have support from the Agency in anything he needs during his recovery.”

“Except his _job_ ,” Michael said vindictively.

At that, Higgins sighed. “Your loyalty is admirable,” he said. “But this isn’t a question of loyalty.”

“It’s not?” Michael shot back. “You’re talking about giving away Billy’s job after he spent three months in captivity for this Agency. For this _country._ It sounds a hell of a lot like a question of loyalty to me.”

Higgins hesitated another moment before pulling out a file from the stacks on his desk and held it out to Michael.

Michael eyed it cautiously. 

Higgins proffered it again. “Please, look,” he said. 

Michael took it, opening it up. Casey and Rick leaned over. “What is this?” Rick asked.

“They look like foreign nationals, mostly,” Casey remarked.

Michael’s heart sank a little. “They are,” he said. He scanned one page and flipped to the next. “These are the hostages we recovered from Morovia.”

Higgins nodded.

Rick leaned forward with new interest. “Have we considered talking to them about what they know?” he asked. 

“Have we even asked _Billy_?” Casey said.

Michael shook his head, refusing to listen to either of them. “What’s your point?” he asked instead, looking directly at Higgins.

Higgins pursed his lips. “The woman was returned to Poland,” he said. “Her family was overjoyed at her homecoming and the governmental hailed it as a victory for freedom and justice in the region.”

Michael held his breath, not sure he wanted to know the rest.

Higgins eyes were unyielding as he continued. “Once she was cleared out of the intensive care ward, she committed suicide. Jumped out of her hospital room window the first chance she had.”

Rick made a small sound in the back of his throat.

Higgins nodded toward the file. “The man -- the Russian -- has fared somewhat better,” he said. “Just recently he was transferred out of the hospital.”

Michael sat there and refused to show his emotions. Higgins was making a point, but it wasn’t one Michael was going to acknowledge.

“And into a long term care unit,” Higgins said. “He’s still catatonic and the doctors are not optimistic about any significant recovery.”

Carefully, Michael closed the file, pulling it away from Rick’s and Casey’s prying eyes as he tossed it easily back on the desk. “And I’m still waiting for the point,” he pressed, because he was damn well going to make Higgins say it.

“The point,” Higgins said, “is that you need to be realistic about Operative Collins’ prognosis. What he experienced in Morovia is beyond what I think any of us would like to conceptualize. For other victims, this reality is not just career ending. It’s life ending.”

Michael swallowed hard, and found himself defiant. “They’re not Billy.”

“No,” Higgins agreed. “But I suggest you think strongly about what Operative Collins needs. Not what you think this team needs. There’s a difference.”

Michael felt the blood rushing to his head, the starkness of indignation swelling in his stomach. He wanted to protest; he wanted to bring Higgins down a few notches.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he forced a smile. “Is that all for today?” he asked. Then added, quite pointedly. “Sir?”

Higgins sighed. He waved his hand. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

Michael couldn’t leave his office fast enough.

-o-

The problem was, of course, that Michael could leave Higgins’ office, but he could never leave the looming truth or the inevitable conflict such truth brought. He’d been trying to -- nobly and mostly successfully -- but something had to give.

Something was _going_ to give.

And for once, Michael didn’t know how he was going to keep it together.

They had barely gotten back to their office when Casey said, “He’s right.”

Casey wasn’t one to pull his punches, so Michael wasn’t surprised. That didn’t mean he was any happier to hear it, though. Turning, he was gathering his words carefully, when Rick shook his head. “You can’t be serious,” the younger operative said.

Casey shrugged. “I’m always serious.”

“We don’t _need_ a fourth member,” Rick returned, his voice hitching passionately. “ _Billy’s_ our fourth man.”

“And he can barely get up in the morning without having someone there to tell him what to do,” Casey said. “I mean, what, he can wipe his ass on his own and suddenly we think he’s backup material?”

Rick’s eyes widened with something akin to desperation and rage. He shook his head. “We already left him behind once,” he said. “We can’t do it again.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Casey replied. “We already left him behind. What we brought back -- he may be living and breathing, but he’s hardly the man we used to know. He’s hardly a man at all, much less an operative worth anything in the Agency.”

Michael was too tired, too weary, too _everything,_ that he wasn’t fast enough to stop Rick from lunging wildly. The move was so unexpected that Martinez even got a punch off before Casey realized what was happening and started fighting back.

And just like that, _everything_ gave.

Rick was fighting wildly, throwing fists and punches without thought or restraint. In reply, Casey was starting to maneuver, executing expertly placed blows. In short, this was going to turn from bad to worse and soon because if Casey didn’t kill Rick, Rick was going to kill Casey.

That wasn’t going to happen. None of them were dying. None of them were getting left behind. They were a team and teams stuck together. This was _Michael’s_ team, and he would make them stick together. 

No matter what.

Normally, Michael wouldn’t consider getting between two angry and trained men. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and if his team was going to go down someday, it wasn’t going to be by each other’s hands.

He grabbed the closest body, yanking Martinez hard on the shoulder. The younger man stumbled, still trying to advance, but Michael held him at bay forcibly while using his other hand to shove Casey away roughly.

It was a precarious hold, and neither man seemed inclined to give. Casey was on alert, hands raised and ready, and Rick was positively seething. 

“That’s enough!” Michael yelled.

“The son of a bitch is talking like Billy like he’s already dead,” Rick spat.

“And the moron is acting like Billy will somehow go back to being who he used to be and not stay the half-person that he is now,” Casey returned with equal vigor.

Rick cursed and surged again. Michael had to readjust his grip, but he managed to hold firm. “That’s _enough_ ,” he said again, more forcefully this time. He turned his eyes to Rick. “You’re not helping Billy.”

It was a low blow, but still effective. Rick’s face paled and he finally eased up.

Michael turned his deadly stare back to Casey. “And you’re not helping anyone,” he said.

Casey relaxed slightly, adjusting his coat and tie.

As the imminent threat passed, Michael let go, hands dropping just slightly, but he didn’t move from between his teammates. Instead, he took a steadying breath, eyeing both of them. “We’re forgetting the point,” he said.

Rick didn’t look like he trusted himself to speak, but Casey humored him. “And that is?” he asked.

Michael let his hands drop further. “That we’re not the enemy,” he said. “The people who did this to Billy -- who did this to us -- are still over there, in Morovia. I don’t like it any better than you do, but we need to deal with that.” He glanced at Rick. “For Billy, we need to deal with that.” Then he looked back at Casey. “And we’re not going to do our job any better if we’re picking fights with one another.”

There was a silence, before Rick finally nodded. “So, what then?” he asked. “We just take Higgins’ replacement?”

“No,” Michael said.

Casey let out a breath, as if in protest.

Michael turned to him and didn’t hesitate. “Because we don’t need a backup,” he said. “We don’t have time to break in a new member of the team, not with a timeline this tight or on a mission with stakes this high. We’re better off with people we can trust.”

He was right. Casey knew it; Rick knew it. Higgins would have to accept it.

But watching Rick and Casey, thinking about Billy, Michael wasn’t so sure he believed it himself.

-o-

“So. How are things?”

Blanke asked the question like he asked all the questions. Simple. Straightforward. No guile.

Billy liked that about him. Before, it had made him usable. Now, it made him different. He didn’t want anything from Billy. He didn’t expect anything.

He was Blanke.

When Billy didn’t answer, Blanke shrugged a little. “I’ve been doing okay myself,” he said, continuing as if Billy had replied. “I mean, not much really going on. Work is sort of slow. But I have discovered a new way of maximizing my walking route around the office. You see, you have to cut through the technology department and _then_ backtrack through the breakroom. It’s a little circuitous, but that’s sort of the point now, isn’t it?”

The point. Billy couldn’t remember the point. They kept him awake, they broke his bones, the threw him in the dark -- and there was no point. Just questions and questions that would never have enough answers.

Sometimes he could still see the light, burned into the back of his eyelids. Never yielding, never changing, never, _never._

“And the office thing you guys got me last year is still great,” Blanke said with genuine enthusiasm. “I even bought a plant! It’s a little too dark in there without a window, but I put my desk light on it to be safe.”

Too dark. It was too dark sometimes, too. The light burned him raw but the dark consumed him. He became the dark. In the light, every imperfection was vivid. In the dark, there was _nothing._

Blankness.

Appropriate.

Irony.

Humor.

He could laugh with his captors, once. He could, but it wasn’t funny. 

This was funny.

“And I think I may have managed to get myself a mission!” Blanke said. “Nothing too big, of course, but I have this embassy contact in Cairo, and he said he has this lead about potential counterfeiting. Sure, he thinks it’s only a matter of accounting, but I think it’s worth checking out, you know?”

The question was earnest.

Billy inclined his head, trying to think of the right answer.

There had to be an answer. All questions have answers. All things have their uses. Billy needed to be useful. 

But what use could he be to Blanke?

Blanke sighed a little, with vague discontent. Still, he smiled, eyes crinkled and warm when he looked at Billy.

Looked at him.

No probing. No ascertainment. Just looked.

And he saw.

No one had seen _Billy._ Billy hadn’t been sure there was anything left. He was a question without answers; a thing past its usefulness; a memory of who he’d been. The light had burned him up and the darkness had stolen the rest away and what was left...

What was left?

And Blanke smiled. “Anyway, that’s me,” he said. He gestured waywardly. “What about you?”

Billy took a breath. Some questions were not pointed; some answers were not weighted. Some things didn’t need to be useful.

Some things were.

Some things weren’t.

Billy wasn’t sure.

But maybe Billy wanted to know.

Maybe.

He swallowed, taking a breath. He furrowed his brow and asked himself the question. _What about you?_

Not: _Who are you and who do you work for?  
_  
Not: _Do you want to talk about what happened?  
_  
Not: _Do you think you can manage on your own?  
_  
Just: _what about you?  
_  
And for once, Billy had an answer.

His voice was still foreign, his tongue moving awkwardly against his reconstructed jaw and the newly minted teeth. But he had words. “Well,” he said, finding his courage. “Presume not that I am the thing I was.”

Blanke stared. 

Billy pressed his lips together. “Henry IV,” he clarified. “Shakespeare.”

Blanke stared.

Blanke smiled.

It wasn’t hope, but it was something. Billy wondered if after everything, this was as much as he could expect. Not to be who he was, to be _this_ , some facsimile. Not whole, not accepted, not truly wanted for what he was, only what he had been.

The light still burned. And the darkness still consumed. In this, Billy had found one answer, but there would always be more questions.


	8. VII. Rejection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Soul rending angst ahead. This may be the hardest chapter of the whole fic.

VII.  
Rejection  


_  
Billy had thought the cell with the alarm and the bare burning bulb had been bad._

_That was, until they put him in the dark._

_When they’d first flung him into the dank, fetid cell, he’d turned and pounded on the heavy metal door, howling like a wounded animal in rage and grief and pain, slamming his fists against the steel until they were red and raw._

_Bastards. Murderers._

_And when the last of his energy had been spent, he’d slumped to the floor, his howls muting into sobs as he’d curled up in the corner and wept until he fell asleep._

_But even sleep, which he’d fervently prayed for and coveted while it had been denied him, provided no blissful release. Eyes closed, he could see Tsykalov’s vacant face, eyes open._

_He’d woken up shouting, disoriented; he couldn’t see where he was. For a minute he’d been terrified that he’d gone blind – had they taken his eyes as well as his teeth and his fingers? Maimed and mangled hands brushed his face in a panic until he remembered. And the remembering was the worst part._

_He waited for them to come and fetch him for his daily beatings and interrogations. Waited for the Commander to gloat in that even, genial voice Billy could no longer imagine as ever sounding kind._

_He waited._

_But there was nothing._

_There was only the dark._

_-o-_

_He didn’t know how much time passed._

_Not that he’d been able to garner the passage of time well in his other cell; it had been weeks (months?) since he’d seen the sun. But before, at least, he’d been able to gather a general sense of time from the regularity of the abuse and the bland gruel that constituted his meals. The former had now ceased, and the latter was diminishing noticeably. Sometimes it felt like eons between the times when the small hatch at the bottom of the door slid open and someone pushed a bowl of watery slop through. Billy always recoiled when it happened – even that small amount of light left him half-blind with eyes watering – but after a few moments would creep forward and dutifully fetch the meager bowl._

_Hunger had become a constant. Within the first two weeks of his imprisonment, his clothing had started to fit more loosely on his long and lanky frame, but now his clothes were little more than stained and dirty rags; he could only think of how badly they’d fit were they still intact. He didn’t so much get used to the hunger as he found that the low and gnawing pain of it became a part of him, to the point that he forgot what it felt like not to have that deep and empty void at the center of his being, that dry and scraping thirst in his throat._

_Even so, when they finally bothered to feed him, his broken jaw ached with such intensity and his hands shook so violently that he wound up spilling more of the slop down the front of his chin than he managed to swallow. And the gnawing, aching, imploding hunger remained._

_Days. He was fairly certain it was days. A week? Weeks? He didn’t know. Did it matter? Time had been relevant in his old life, he knew that, but it held no meaning or purpose here. There was nothing to anticipate. Nothing to wait for. He’d waited before, waited for rescue, promised Tsykalov that it would come –_

_– promised –_

_– and lied._

_He didn’t know how much time had passed and he didn’t care. Tsykalov’s time had run out and he’d been murdered right in front of Billy’s eyes. And it had all been Billy’s fault._

_His fault. Fault. Fault. It became a litany, a word be repeated in his mind until it became strange and devoid of meaning. Only he couldn’t really escape the meaning; he knew it too well, deep down. Billy charmed people into being his friends; into helping him, into taking up his cause – he’d spin brave speeches and do his best to ignite courage and hope. He’d done it with Tsykalov. And it had gotten him killed. That blood was on his broken, twisted hands now._

_“It is alright, Vasili,” Tsykalov remarked. “I made my choice. You did not make it for me.”_

_“You wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t put the notion in your mind,” Billy mumbled in response._

_Tsykalov shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Will you not accept absolution?”_

_“Not from a hallucination, mate,” he remarked, rolling over on to his other side._

_Tsykalov sighed. “You are a stubborn man, Vasili. But this is good, yes?”_

_Billy gave a dry, harsh bark of laughter. “Nothing’s been good fer a very long time,” he slurred, turning his head back –_

_Tsykalov said nothing. Because Tsykalov wasn’t there: he was dead._

_And Billy was alone in the dark._

_-o-_

_This was madness. Or something like it. His mind, devoid of any other distraction, invented its own company._

_“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't,” Michael remarked, bouncing the blue stress ball against the cell wall. “Your brain is starved for stimulus. So you’re seeing us.”_

_“It’s not the only thing that’s starved,” Casey remarked stiffly, giving Billy a critical look. “You look like hell.”_

_“You’re one to judge,” Billy mumbled. “You’re not real.”_

_“Doesn’t mean we’re not right,” Michael remarked, tossing the ball in the air. Billy found himself trying to remember whose the ball had even originally been – it circulated between their desks so frequently, it had somehow become joint property._

_Odd though, that he could remember the ball. Some things he remembered clearly: the dry timbre of Casey’s voice, the perpetual smirk tugging at the corners of Michael’s mouth... others he struggled with. He couldn’t remember the color of Adele’s eyes, or how Rick took his coffee._

_And still others he wished he could forget...._

_The hatch slid open, Billy flinched, and the bowl skittered across the floor. Outside, the guard said something in Russian (or Ukrainian?), and someone else laughed. The hatch slid shut, and when the sound of footsteps disappeared, Billy let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding._

_“You gonna eat that?” Casey remarked._

_Billy reached for the bowl, then paused. “Martinez?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“What did he say?”_

_In the corner, Rick shrugged. “Damned if I know.”_

_Billy snorted. “Some translator you are.”_

_Rick had the decency to look apologetic. “Sorry. But since I’m just in your head, I don’t know any more than you do.”_

_“You should really eat that,” Casey persisted, nodding at the bowl. “You need to keep your strength up.”_

_Billy looked away. “For what?”_

_“For when the cavalry shows up.”_

_“And when,” Billy muttered, “will that be?”_

_The ODS fell silent. None of them had an answer. Perhaps because there was no answer._

_“Where the bloody hell are you?” Billy demanded, voice wavering and nearly cracking. “I promised him you’d all come.”_

_Michael pulled his reading glasses from his pocket and began to clean them. Rick swallowed and looked intently at the ceiling. Casey pursed his lips into a thin line and tugged at the hem of his jacket._

_“We’re doing the best we can,” Michael finally began, using his ‘tactful-negotiator’ voice. “We’ve tried–”_

_“WHERE ARE YOU?” Billy screamed, throwing the bowl at Michael’s head. It flew through the air and clattered against the stone wall, its contents splashing and dripping down to the floor._

_Exhausted, hungry and in pain, Billy slumped back, burying his head against his knees with a moan._

_The ODS had vanished. Of course, they’d never been there in the first place._

_They hadn’t come._

_-o-_

_Sometimes, he wondered if his captors had simply forgotten about him. On the one hand, it was a bit of a blessing; there was no fresh torture, no burning, no breaking, no beating... just the hunger and the damp and the dark. And of course, the slow and inexorable descent into what was probably a certain type of madness._

_Billy was starved and hurt and hallucinating men that were dead and men that he would likely never see again. Of course, he knew they were hallucinations – he wasn’t that far gone, which had to be a point against the madness category._

_But he was hard-pressed to ignore them._

_Even when he tried._

_On the one hand, being forgotten was a blessing. On the other... He’d been forgotten._

_“Better late than never,” Simms mused in his distinctive gravelly voice. “Isn’t that what you said, Collins, when you all finally showed up for me?”_

_Billy remained curled up on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest for warmth. It had been getting colder, and his clothes were too torn to be of much use anymore._

_Not that the cold seemed to bother Simms. “You were a bit harsh on the guys earlier, buddy,” he reflected, stretching out as much as the cell would allow. “I mean, considering. Heck, you all left me for three years longer than you’ve been here.”_

_“We thought you were dead,” Billy mumbled thickly._

_“Hate to break it to you, Collins, but a spy missing for this long? Everyone probably thinks you’re dead too.” Simms looked genuinely sympathetic as he said it, but the truth still smarted._

_Even if it was just coming from inside Billy’s head._

_“Chin up, kid, you’ve probably got another two years or so before they replace you with a new guy. Course, you probably will be dead by then...” Simms grinned impishly. “Probably just as well. Three long years... you know what that does to a man?”_

_“Makes him a traitor and a betrayer to his friends?” Billy returned darkly from his position on the floor, shivering faintly._

_Simms looked stricken, clapping a hand to his chest. “You’re hurting me, Collins. You’re hurting me deep.” The wounded look fell away quickly, however, back into the easy grin and rough, cowboy-like demeanor that Billy always associated with Simms. Or had, before... well, before all that had happened._

_“I’m sorry we left you,” Billy whispered. “But look what you became.”_

_Simms raised an eyebrow. “And you really think that when push comes to shove, if you live long enough, you won’t ultimately do the same?”_

_“No.” Billy said it a bit louder, though the strain of speaking hurt his tender and swollen jaw. “I won’t.”_

_Simms looked at him for a long minute, then chuckled, shaking his head with a sad and knowing smile. “Whatever you say, man.”_

_“Sod off,” Billy mumbled, closing his eyes. When he opened them, Simms was gone._

_And he was finally alone in the dark.  
_  
-o-

The flight to Prensk was horrible. The airline was late and they hit turbulence so bad that Michael’s normally unflappable stomach was queasy. Worse still, none of them had gotten seats together, and Michael had ended up next to a large Polish woman who smelled far too much like asparagus.

The airline lost his luggage, and Casey’s suitcase had been half shredded when they got it out of baggage claim. Rick’s jacket was already ruined by the toddler sitting next to him, who had not had Michael’s luck at controlling his stomach.

Then, when they finally got outside, they found that the uncertainty had led to a transportation strike, making buses inaccessible and taxis a hot commodity. And then it had started to rain.

They were late. They were tired. And now they were wet.

In all, it had the makings of one of the worst missions ever. But that was the way it was with the ODS. When things were at their worst, they usually found a way to come at it with their best.

Rick managed to ingratiate himself with a disgruntled limo driver, finding the most comfortable ride in the city. Casey stepped out early when he happened to recognize an old contact crossing the street. Michael set up in the motel and found that as guests in a turbulent country, they were glad to have visitors and upgraded them to a suite for free.

At dinner, Casey was flush with fresh intel. Rick was positive chipper as he read the local paper. And even to Michael, the food tasted unusually good.

Everything felt unusually good. Michael tried to remember the last time he felt like this, the last time he’d been happy, the last time his team had felt like a team.

This was what they were supposed to do. This was what they had trained to do. This was what they hadn’t done since...

The guilt was hard to deal with. Because they could still be a team, they could still be happy. All they had to do was leave Billy behind.

It was a mistake Michael had made with Simms. It was a mistake Michael had made before with Billy. He’d do this mission; he’d get the job done. But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

When Casey tried to order dessert, Michael declined and ordered them back early.

Casey sat back and protested, “We’ve had a hellish day. Don’t we deserve just a little bit?”

Michael left some money on the table and got to his feet. “We’ve already had more than enough,” he said. More than Billy would have, at any rate. “Come on. We have a job to do.”

-o-

This was life.

Billy existed because other people willed him to. They told him to wash and he did. They made him food and he ate. They told him it was time to go and he got in the car, no questions asked.

Michael came; Casey stayed; Rick was there. When not them, Blanke and Fay and Adele. Different people, the same routine. Michael hovered, but never pushed. Casey didn’t care at all. Rick was almost obsessive, giving him things to look at and telling him stories Billy couldn’t follow.

Blanke made silly chitchat. Fay would read a book. Adele tried to make jokes and made the worst macaroni and cheese.

This all required no thought. No effort. But suddenly, Billy found himself thinking. He would lay awake in the mornings and wonder if he could skip the shower and eat breakfast in his underwear. He thought about trying a latte instead of coffee. He wondered if he still liked the taste of doughnuts, if that place on the corner was still in business.

How long had it been? How long had he been missing? How long had he been back? How many weeks and months had it taken to realize that it had, in fact, been weeks and months? And how many years would it take before that meant something to him at all?

Before anything would meant something to him?

He tried to read, but all of the stories seemed fake. Silly people doing silly things, living lives as though that mattered. He tried listening to music, but the melodies sounded dissonant. Too much noise, too much senseless sound that had no purpose. He tried to play the guitar, but even if he could remember the chords, each movement felt too foreign to enjoy.

This room was familiar, and yet, it didn’t say anything about him. Generic art, uncomfortable furniture, and a cupboard filled with other people’s favorite foods and staple ingredients. This was no more a place to call home than a dark, fetid cell. They didn’t feed him slop but they didn’t treat him any less like a subhuman.

That wasn’t fair, though. They tried. Michael sat with him for hours. Casey still came. Rick told him his most personal secrets. Blanke asked how he was. Fay remembered his favorite kind of chocolate. Adele read poetry out loud for him.

They were trying.

They gave him a schedule, made sure he was taken care of. They watched his therapy, kept track of his pills. They brought him food and made eager conversation.

This was life. 

But as days became weeks, Billy realized he wasn’t actually living at all.

-o-

Illyich’s store was the only one still standing on the block. He had to have impeccable luck, not that anyone would guess from talking to him.

“They want a revolution, they don’t want a revolution,” he bemoaned. “These people, they cannot make up their minds. One group has power, another wants it, and they all shoot at each other until there’s no one left to vote either way.”

Michael offered a lukewarm smile. “I’m sure that’s quite frustrating.”

“Frustrating,” Illyich said with melodramatic furor. “It will be the death of me. The _death_!”

“Well, maybe we can avoid that,” Michael said.

“Ach, how can you do that?” he said. “You are one man.”

“You know the work I do,” Michael told him.

“For the good it does me,” he said. “I hardly have any customers left! And you come and you go but you make no difference. You are the same as the rest of them.”

“You can think that,” Michael said. “But you’d be wrong.”

“Bah,” Illyich said with a wave of his hand. “Your money goes further than the rest, but you have done nothing. You cannot stop these men. They are powerful.”

“Not as powerful as they think,” Michael said.

“But more powerful than you,” Illyich returned. “Did they not take one of you? Did they not make him squeal?”

Michael felt his stomach go cold. “I thought you didn’t know anything about that.”

Illyich stopped short, paling. He held his hand out, placating now. “You pay me to know things,” he said. “So I know things.”

“And what do you know about the agent who was abducted?”

Illyich wavered.

Michael stepped closer, eyes narrowing. He wasn’t an imposing man, but he knew how to scare people into submission when he needed to.

Illyich laughed nervously. “Just that,” he said. “It is spoken of, like a warning. A sign of power, if you will. They can take out the enemy; not even the great USA can stop them. Even the famous CIA breaks under their pressure. It is street lore, yes?”

It wasn’t unheard of, even if it hurt to hear. To think of Billy spoken of as some conquest; used as an example. He supposed they were lucky that photos of his ravaged body hadn’t been circulated online as a display of power and a message of terror.

Lucky didn’t seem to be the right term, though. This was Billy, not some anonymous agent who suffered in the line of duty. This was Michael’s teammate. His responsibility.

And any shame was his to carry, not Billy’s.

Gritting his teeth, Michael worked to control his temper. Illyich was annoying and greedy and generally a pain in the ass, but he was still Michael’s only asset. If the people who did this to Billy were going to pay, Michael needed Illyich, whether he liked it or not.

“They can say whatever they want,” Michael said, unflinching now. “But street lore is just as much fiction as anything else. We can stop them. We _will._ But only if you tell me everything you know.”

Illyich hesitated. He looked ready to say something, but then he smiled. He nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “But everything is a lot to ask.”

Michael rolled his eyes, reaching for his wallet.

Illyich shook his head. “Not here,” he said, glancing around. He lowered his voice. “Someplace safer, yes?”

“This is about as private as it gets,” Michael said, glancing around Illyich’s overstuffed shop.

“Not private,” he said. “Public. We need someplace with people. We need to -- how do you say -- get lost in the crowd?”

Michael considered that, considered the risks, and then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Name your time, place and price.”

Illyich grinned. “This I like,” he said. “This I like very much.”

“It just better be worth what I give you,” Michael warned.

“Always!” Illyich said, beaming now. “I have not failed you yet, yes?”

-o-

It took him a few weeks before he realized that therapy was boring.

When he finally came to this conclusion, Billy felt rather foolish. After all, he’d been sitting in a room for an hour a day with his therapist since he came back to his senses, and it had taken him _weeks_ to even be cognizant of the fact that it was complete rubbish.

Billy was not necessarily above being helped -- pride was something he’d mostly abandoned when he’d been wallowing in his own filth and scrabbling after slop like a starving barnyard mouse -- but in this case, he wasn’t sure of the point. His body had been mended. He looked reasonably human. People passing him on the street, if he ever truly ventured out, wouldn’t know to look twice.

But they could fix Billy and they could dress him up. He could learn to do daily tasks, but that didn’t change the fact that there was something inside of him that would never be fixed. That would always be broken.

Therefore, he did not doubt that his therapist had the best of intentions, but she was as foolish as everyone else if she thought that sitting there and waiting for him to speak would yield tangible results.

And yet, not speaking wasn’t getting him anywhere. For the first few weeks, he had barely been able to concentrate long enough to carry on a coherent thought, much less attempt a conversation. Sometimes he would sit and blink and realize the hour had gone by without a slightest sense of time passing.

Now that the seconds all carried equal weight to Billy, the hour-long sessions were interminable. Which was, in fact, the only reason he decided to start talking to his therapist at all.

Some days he still felt too listless. Some days he was too tired. But some days, he felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin, and sitting there while the woman stared at him was almost entirely too much. He would tell her _anything_ to make it stop.

So they talked. 

She asked questions. About the weather. About physical therapy. About how he spent his time. About who sat with him during the day.

And Billy answered. That it was sunny. That it didn’t hurt much. That he had a lot of books to read. That his teammates were gone, but sent others in their stead.

“And how does that make you feel?”

The question gave Billy pause. “Pardon?” he asked.

She nodded. “That they’re gone,” she said. “That they went on a mission and sent people you don’t know as well to watch you.”

Suddenly, it was a novel concept. How did it feel? How did it feel to be treated like a mental invalid? How did it feel to be babysat like an incorrigible toddler? How did it feel to know that his mates had left him with nothing but a promise to come back?

He frowned, swallowing tightly. He shifted and looked away.

She waited.

She had the patience of a bloody saint, that woman.

“Well?” she prompted.

Billy sighed. Then he shrugged. “I suppose I’m lucky that people care,” he said, because it was the right answer to give.

She didn’t believe him. “But how do you _really_ feel?”

He smiled wryly, feeling a surge of bitterness. “I need a minder, I’m told,” he said. “Randomly zoning out and going into panic fits makes people nervous for my safety.”

“Do you think you’d harm yourself?”

“Sometimes I think I’m in a Morovian cell, so I’m probably not the best judge.”

She didn’t look away. “That’s what they tell you.”

Billy worked his jaw. “That’s what I remember.”

She looked at him a moment longer, tilting her head. “You haven’t talked about that,” she said.

It was a simple statement, but Billy froze. He did his best to hide it, but his heart started pounding. “Talked about what?” he asked vainly.

“What you remember.”

“I remember lots of things,” Billy said, a little cautious. “My first kiss; my first football match. And a particularly funny little man named Maynard in the south of Wales.”

She was not distracted. “About what happened on your last mission.”

Billy’s throat constricted, his chest was tight. He remembered:  
 __  
The cafe where he met Illyich, the cobblestone alleyway when he was knocked out...

The commander’s voice, so confident, so smooth...

The feeling of bones cracking, one by one, finger by finger by finger...

The burning light, shining and glowing and penetrating and--

Tsykalov’s eyes, open and wide and unseeing--

Dark. And dark. So dark he didn’t know where he began, where he ended, if he existed at all--  
 __  
“Billy?”

Billy sucked in hard, remembering to breathe. He blinked rapidly, fighting back the memories. It took work to calm himself, and even then, he couldn’t quite bring his heart rate back to normal.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He smiled, even though it was shaky. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I may as well just talk of dreams, children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.”

“Is that what you think of what happened to you? That it’s a fantasy?”

This time, Billy’s smile turned sad. It seemed intangible like a dream; it seemed as vivid as a fantasy. “I am not so lucky, I reckon,” he said. “But I’d still be talking of _nothing._ ”

Not a dream, not a fantasy. A nightmare. A nightmare that ebbed away at him until there was nothing, until he was nothing, until there was only _nothing.  
_  
-o-

Michael felt conspicuous as he moved through the downtown foot traffic. Most of the city was still voluntarily locked down, wary of the shifting political winds. But the heart of the city still maintained some semblance of daily routine, with tired businessmen and women going about their jobs because people still needed to eat, even in times of potential civil unrest.

He had scoped the site himself when Illyich had given him the address. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about it. The cafe Illyich had chosen was on one of the few untouched squares in the city. Walking there now, it might be easy to forget that this was a country on the cusp of rebellion.

It might be easy to forget what this country had taken from all of them.

Michael was paranoid under the best of circumstances. Knowing these were the streets where they’d lost Billy just heightened his awareness. Which was to say, he was more or less a functioning psychopath.

That minor detail aside, there was a job to do, and this was it.

Adjusting his coat slightly, he made his way across the street. He spotted Illyich at one of the outdoor tables, just as had been specified. The day was brisk, but Morovians seemed unbothered by the weather and more than a few were seated in the outdoor seating area. Illyich was dressed warmly in a snug coat, his gray head gleaming in the afternoon sun.

As he approached, Michael visually swept the street again. He spotted Casey reading the paper on a street bench not far away. Down the way, Rick was pretending to check his phone. The people in the street went about their business, with no sign of anything amiss.

Satisfied, he sat down.

Illyich offered him a broad grin. “My friend!”

Michael returned the greeting with a reserved smile. He put his briefcase down purposefully between them. “And I come with gifts,” he said, pushing it a little closer to Illyich with his toe.

Illyich’s eyes were bright. “A beautiful gesture, I am sure.”

“One that better be reciprocated,” Michael said.

“Ah, always business,” Illyich replied. “All work, no play. Americans are no fun at all.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Michael said. “I just don’t find civil upheaval all that enjoyable.”

Illyich’s face fell. “It is a nasty business,” he said. Then he shrugged somewhat. “But it is still a business, yes?”

Michael was done with the pleasantries. “Tell me what you have.”

Reaching into his coat, Illyich hesitated, just for a moment. He looked at Michael, a little wary. “You do know I have no interest in who rules and who falls,” he said. “I wish only for stability. The chance to run my shop, to prosper. War is no good for old men, and I am old. Older by the day.”

Michael didn’t waver. “We’re here to help,” he told him, as honestly as he could. That was why they’d come here in the first place. That was the mission when Billy had been taken. That was the reason for Billy’s sacrifice -- for the sacrifice they’d all made.

Illyich’s fingers settled on an envelope and he pulled it out. Fondling it for a moment, he laid it out on the table with an air of finality.

Michael reached down, picking it up. Sliding his finger under the flap, he opened it and pulled out the sheets.

A quick perusal showed them to be schematics. The overview of what appeared to be a military-grade bunker. Another page had a location marked on a satellite image.

“What is it?” Michael asked finally.

Illyich’s smile was small. “It used to be a home for weapons,” he said. His hand flitted in the air. “How do you say--?”

“Arms cache?”

Illyich snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Very popular. Saw much use.”

“Saw, as in past tense,” Michael concluded. “If it’s abandoned, I’m not sure how it’s much use to me.”

“Things happen so quickly here in Morovia,” he said. “The government falls. Elections take place. People rebel. No one has time to stay in power; no one has time to clean up their own messes.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed as he worked to get Illyich’s meaning. “So it’s abandoned, but not empty.”

Illyich shrugged. “Power, it makes people sloppy, yes?” he said. “The men who run this cache, they are powerful now.”

“And hopefully sloppy,” Michael said, looking back down over the schematics.

“Very, very sloppy,” Illyich agreed, pushing back his chair noisily. He reached over, and picked up the briefcase. He got to his feet, looking out at the crowd of people. Finally, he looked back to Michael. “Goodbye, friend.”

Michael nodded his head, refolding the papers as Illyich scuttled away into the crowd. He put the envelope in his pocket and he settled back in his chair. He waited for Rick to leave, then watched as Casey threw out his paper, before getting to his feet and walking away.

Although, for the first time in Morovia, Michael felt like he might be finally getting somewhere.

-o-

Billy woke up with the sun.

It found its way under the curtain, filling up the room. He stared at it as it crept across his ceiling, watching it until everything just _glowed.  
_  
Then he glanced at his clock. It was too early to get up. Breakfast wouldn’t be for another hour. Adele would still be asleep on the couch.

So Billy laid there. And stared.

This was just like yesterday, only then it had been Fay. It was just like the day before that, only then it had been Blanke. And all the days before, and all the days after. Michael and Rick and Casey would be back, soon. They’d be back and they’d keep the same schedule, because that was what Billy’s life was now.

They hadn’t asked him, and he hadn’t protested. He’d assumed they had his best interests in mind. They all cared about him. That was why they were here.

But why hadn’t they been _there_?

Billy might need them now, but he needed them then, more? Here, the hours were long but they weren’t painful. They could make schedules and keep routines, but it didn’t change what happened.

They could come back every day; they could come back once a week. They still didn’t come for three months...

Billy closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the light any better than he could the memories.

They meant well, and he’d missed them. He’d missed them so much. They _had_ come, and he was safe now and this was better--

But better was a relative term. Anything was better than hell.  
 _  
Anything._

The problem was, sometimes he thought he was still in hell. Not just his waking nightmares, not just when he was wrenched from sleep with the memory he couldn’t control, but _this. Aye me, sad hours seem long._

Never ending.

 _Never_ ending.

He took a breath, then opened his eyes. Turning his head, he glanced at the clock. Three minutes had passed.

Three _minutes.  
_  
Three months.

It wasn’t the same, but it was. One routine, another routine. Some cages were just more comfortable.

Some things that broke could never be fixed.

Numb, Billy sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Getting to his feet, he walked to the door. Michael’s schedule was posted there, the neat shorthand scrawled in pen for Billy to see every morning. Get up, eat breakfast, shower.

Every day, and they always made sure he did it. When his mates didn’t have the time, he was still looked after.

When they didn’t have the _time--  
_  
Just like that, Billy reached out, ripping the paper off the door. He crumpled it in his fist, wadding it tightly, feeling the tension in his still-new hands expand and contract with surprising satisfaction.

If they didn’t have the time, it didn’t really matter, because Billy was apparently stuck with all the time in the world.

-o-

The situation in Morovia was pressing enough that Michael didn’t have time to let his team go home. They took a ride from the airport, ending up back in the office with a stack of surveillance photos, Illyich’s intel, and a serious case of jetlag.

This was how it was, though. Or, how it had used to be. Putting everything aside for the job.

The work was so pressing that Michael almost didn’t have time to think about Billy.

The fourth member of the ODS would be have been well taken care of, but Michael had missed the last few calls back to the States. Things had gotten busy, and he’d just run out of time. He’d promised Fay he’d be back as soon as he could, but the fact was, just because they were home, didn’t mean they were at their leisure.

They just needed a few hours to sort things out, to start checking Illyich’s lead. They just needed a little time.

Five hours later, Michael was downing his sixth cup of coffee, scouring a pile of reports on the area. Casey was plotting points on the map sprawled across their work table while Rick was flipping through the photos, making notations on a piece of paper.

“I think my eyes are starting to mess with me,” Rick said, squinting at the top image. “This is Vereychek, right?”

He held out the image and Michael looked at it. “Yeah,” he said. “Is that a recent one?”

Rick studied it again. “Yeah, just last week.”

“Do we have IDs on the rest of them?” Michael asked. 

“Since one crazy would-be dictator is so different from another,” Casey said with a derisive snort.

Rick ignored him, shrugging. He pointed to a younger man. “This is his son,” he said. “But he’s mostly a party boy who Vereychek is trying to groom into something. No one likes him.”

Michael glanced from the young man to the older man in back. His face was placid, plain and avuncular. “And him?”

“Um,” Rick said, frantically flipping through his notes. “Looks like his name is Rezin. Head of intelligence. There’s not much on him, though. Used to be a violinist.”

Michael made a face, shaking his head. “Takes all types, I guess,” he said.

Rick blew out a breath, putting the photos down. He looked out over the table and shook his head. “This is taking too long.”

Michael looked from his own papers to the clock. He winced. “Damn,” he said. “Fay’ll have pulled a 12 hour shift at this point.”

“I promised him we’d come by right after we got in,” Rick said. “I just -- the intel seemed important--”

Michael got to his feet, patting Rick on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “And it is. This isn’t an easy balance.”

“But it shouldn’t be a balance at all,” Rick said, looking at Michael with guilty eyes.

“Of course it shouldn’t,” Casey said, not getting up. “Because we _should_ be focused on our jobs.”

Michael flinched, but Rick didn’t lash out this time. Still, the intensity of Rick’s expression said enough. “The team comes first,” he said. He looked back to Michael. “We don’t leave a man behind, right?”

“The sentiment is touching,” Casey interjected. “But worthless. Billy was a part of this team. Most of the time, he was even a good part of this team. We need to keep our focus if we’re going to be 100 percent in the field.”

“We can’t just write him off like that,” Rick said. “I mean, I know we have work, but--” He cut off with a sigh. It was the first real crack in the facade that Michael had seen yet. Rick had been dogged in his support of Billy, more tenacious about his recovery than anyone else. But it was an effort directed toward an end, toward making Billy better.

If Billy never got better...

Michael wasn’t willing to entertain the thought yet, probably even less than Rick was.

Instead, he reached for his suit coat and slipped it back on. “We’ll never be 100 percent as long as we’re leaving Billy behind,” he said.

Rick nodded readily. Casey gave Michael a withering look. “And so, what?” Casey asked. “We drop everything and go play nanny to a grown man?”

“No,” Rick said. “We go check on our friend.”

Casey rolled his eyes. Pushing his chair back, he picked up his coffee cup. “I’m going to go get a refill,” he said. “We’re out in here.”

“But Billy-” Rick began.

“Won’t miss me,” Casey said curtly, as he abruptly moved to the toward.

For a second, all Rick could do was gape, before looking at Michael in protest. “He can’t just do that.”

Michael sighed.

“I mean, he _can’t,_ ” Rick said. “I know this is hard. It’s hard on all of us, but we _owe_ Billy. I mean, if the situations were reversed, does Casey think that Billy would just stop visiting him?”

Michael didn’t know how to envision the situations being reversed. He hadn’t even known how to visualize this until it was happening, day after painful day.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t understand. He did. Leaving the country, even for a mission to Morovia, had felt like a honest to God breath of fresh air. The idea of going to Billy’s motel room, of sitting there and making uncomfortable conversation with someone he used to trust with his _life_ was hard.

But still, necessary.

Martinez was working his ire up again, though. “What, he thinks that Billy’s just too much of an inconvenience? Like he _wanted_ for this to happen?”

Weary, Michael shook his head. “Just take it easy, Martinez,” he said. “We all cope differently. In Casey’s case, he doesn’t really cope at all. Remember what I said before we left? We can’t be fighting each other. We’re _not_ the enemy.”

Rick fell silent and sullen. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. He looked balefully at his work. “I guess you and I can go. I mean, I wanted to get more of this done, but it can wait...”

Michael’s eyes lingered on the piles. He sighed. “No, it can’t,” he said. “You stay. I’ll go.”

Rick hesitated again. “Are you sure?”

Michael shrugged with as much confidence as he had left. “Of course,” he said.

As he made his way out to the car, still thinking of the intel, he just hoped for once he wasn’t lying.

-o-

Work was only one reason Michael had wanted Rick to stay behind.

Casey was another.

Catching up with him wasn’t hard. He knew Casey’s route to the break room, and found him inside, dolefully pouring himself a cup of coffee. The room was thankfully empty, which was about the only thing working in Michael’s favor these days.

When Michael approached, Casey looked up, nonplussed. He clearly didn’t want to aggravate Michael, but Michael was well passed trying to play nice with Casey.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded quietly, managing to keep his voice low, though his aggravation lent a sibilant quality to his consonants.

“What the hell was _what_?” Casey drawled, apparently determined to be difficult.

“You know damn well what,” Michael returned. Good God, it was like dealing with petulant children. “Back there.”

“Maybe you should be asking Martinez that,” Casey replied cooly, his self-control clearly reasserting itself.

Michael squared off in front of him, blocking Casey’s path. “I need this team to keep together, Malick. And I need you to be on board. With everything we do.”

There was a pause, then Casey shook his head. “I’m sorry Michael. But I can’t do that.”

He sighed with exasperation. “Look, I know this whole thing is difficult –”

“This whole thing is madness.”

“– But Billy needs–”

“–What Billy needed was to have never been captured in the first place, or to have been rescued a hell of a lot sooner,” Casey snapped, revealing just how tenuous his cool composure really was. “We failed. Living in denial isn’t going to change the fact he’s gone, and I’m tired of being the only one who isn’t living in some sort of warped fantasy.”

“He’s not gone,” Michael said quietly.

Casey snorted. “You remember Billy Collins. Tall, always making jokes, terrible poet, unabashed flirt and general chatterbox? That’s Billy. And he’s dead and gone and that _zombie_ we brought back might look like him, but he’s damn well not Billy any more.”

“And when exactly did you come to that conclusion?” Michael hissed, frustrated as much with Casey as he was with himself and the tiny part of him that wanted to agree that what Casey was saying made _sense..._

Casey rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. When he tried to kill himself? Or sometime during the weeks he spent staring at the wall like a vegetable? Heck, it was pretty clear even before that.”

“He didn’t try to kill himself,” Michael interjected, feeling a little like a broken record. “Billy would never try to kill himself.”

“You’re right. _Billy_ wouldn’t.” Casey let the pointed comment hang in the charged air.

“So you’ve just given up on him. Completely.” Michael didn’t rail and rage like Martinez had, but he couldn’t keep the reproach and disappointment from his voice.

Casey glowered. “I’ve accepted that he’s gone. I’ve mourned him. And I’m trying to get on with dealing that the world is still turning and we still have a job to do.” He looked away, muscles in his jaw working. “When Simms died, we grieved, we sulked, and then we damn well got over it and moved on.”

“Simms wasn’t dead,” Michael quickly argued. “We got him back –”

“Hah!” Casey laughed harshly, but Michael could see pain straining his features. “No we didn’t. And this isn’t any different. What we got back was twisted and broken and just a shadow of the man we knew. We got our hopes raised and the fact of the matter was we were better off thinking he was dead, because he was long gone.”

“So you think we’d have been better off just leaving Billy to die?” Michael asked, hoping to shame Casey into some sort of concession.

Casey shook his head. “He was already dead. Just no one’s realized it yet.” His shoulders slumped, and for a moment Michael was reminded that Casey Malick was no longer a young man. “Holding on to unrealistic hope won’t make this better, and it won’t bring the old Billy back.” He looked down. “I’m at less than seventy percent, Michael. Don’t ask me to keep pretending.”

Pretending was all they had sometimes, and Michael knew it. Maybe Michael had been pretending from the beginning, and even his facades were wearing thin. If Casey was at seventy, Michael was less. Hell, Michael was almost running on empty. 

It didn’t matter, though. Failure still wasn’t an option, even if it was a reality. Because Billy was living and breathing and alive, and as long as that was true, Michael couldn’t give up, no matter how hard it got.

“You really think you can live with yourself?” Michael asked. 

“I don’t have a choice,” Casey returned.

Michael took a breath. Then another. He made his expression hard, holding back the feelings he didn’t have time to deal with. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I won’t make you do what you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to be there for him, that’s your business. If you want to bail on this team, I won’t stop you. But that’s your failure, not mine, not Rick’s. And not Billy’s. I’m not accepting defeat on this mission, even if you are.”

“It’s called reality, Michael,” Casey said flatly. “I don’t have to like it, but we’d all be better if we accepted it.”

Michael held his chin up defiantly.

Casey took a drink of his coffee. “I’m not cutting him out of my life entirely,” he said, a little conciliatory. “If I have time, I’ll stop by. Maybe a lunch. But no more nights. No more missing work. Just _no more._ ”

As Casey walked away, Michael wanted to protest. He wanted to guilt him into it. He couldn’t, though, not when he was secretly wondering how much longer he could go before he admitted the exact same thing.

-o-

They watched everything he did.

When he got up, they watched him shuffle across the floor to the kitchen. When they made him breakfast, they watched him eat each bite. They watched him go to the bathroom and reminded him not to close the door. They gave him books and watched him until he turned a page.

Sometimes, they tried to be discreet. But Billy had been a spy once, and he knew when people were watching him. He knew when people were analyzing him. He knew when he was being treated like a damn child.

And sometimes, he was like a child. Sometimes he still woke up screaming and crying until someone held his shoulders and reminded him it was a dream. Sometimes his fingers still locked when holding a spoon, his jaw clicking awkwardly with a large bite. Sometimes he heard a loud sound and found himself cowering before he knew to stop himself.

They treated him like he might still break.

Sometimes he worried that he might.

Sometimes he just wished he would.

Because Rick came with funny anecdotes about his childhood. Casey came with training manuals that he studied during the long hours. Michael came and organized his flat, straightening and organizing again and again.

And Billy came with _nothing._

Sometimes he wanted to scream and rage, to kick and bite. He wanted to throw them out, to ask them why they were here now when they hadn’t been _then._ He wanted to make them hurt, just a taste of what he was feeling, what he had felt, what he would always feel.

He never could, though, because for as much as he wanted to, he was more often afraid they might finally listen to him and he’d be alone again.

It was probably what he deserved. They should have left him there. They should have left him in the dark to die.

Sometimes Billy wasn’t sure what he was really angry about. That it took them so long to come or that they finally came at all.

Sometimes Billy didn’t know. God help him, Billy didn’t _know._ He was going to scream and he was going to cry and he was angry and he was so damn grateful and he hated them and he needed them and sometimes Billy missed his cell.

He curled up on the floor, pulling in close to the wall and drew his knees to his chest in the pitch dark and listened to his heart beat until there was nothing else.  
 _  
Sometimes.  
_  
-o-

 

They pointed out to each other that Billy was making progress.

Of course, progress was relative.

Several months ago, Michael would have hoped that progress at this point would have meant Billy cracking jokes and starting to pick up women again and getting ready to gear up to get back in the field. But instead, progress meant Billy talking in whole sentences (though they tended to remain somewhat clipped and abrupt), and actually making eye contact without immediately cringing and looking away. Progress was touching Billy’s arm and not having him flinch as if he’d been struck. Progress was Billy being able to go outside without a panic attack. Progress was fewer nights where Michael woke up in the wee hours on Billy’s couch to the sound of a grown man’s hysterical sobs. 

Progress was relative.

But it was progress nonetheless. If it meant having something resembling a conversation, and Billy getting up and doing small tasks around his room without being prompted, and being able to leave Billy alone for fifteen minutes to run down to the store without an overwhelming sense of dread, then Michael was willing to take the tiny victories.

Though sometimes, he stepped back and realized just how tiny they were.

“It’s Billy’s birthday tomorrow,” Rick remarked, breaking the silence in the office one day. 

They’d been pouring over files and data – Luc and French Intelligence had agreed to share intel they’d gathered from their ex-pat source, and the ODS was now dutifully sorting through the useful knowledge from the unimportant figures and facts – and Michael had been so focused it took him a few moments to register Martinez’ statement.

“I found it in his file a while back and put it in my calendar,” Rick added, as if trying to fill the silence.

Casey said nothing, continuing to go through the papers on his desk.

Michael felt somewhat shamed. For a man normally preoccupied with details, he’d managed to let that one slip from his mind. “So it is,” he carefully replied. Normally, Billy’s birthday was an occasion of significant drinking and debauchery, with the ODS performing a sort of pub-crawl through the capital, concluding in the early hours with hangovers of epic proportions. But they’d made sure to clean out the mini-bar and keep Billy away from alcohol ever since the incident with the pills and wine, and without Billy joyfully whooping and driving them all to stumble on to the next bar, the idea of their usual birthday ritual lacked appeal. “How about we do lunch? There’s an Indian place near his motel that does a good masala.”

Rick hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, ok. That sounds good.”

It sounded dull and hardly festive, in truth, but Michael wasn’t sure what Billy was up to handling, and was worried about expecting too much too soon. Again.

So the next day they clocked out early and carpooled in Michael’s Taurus to the hotel, where they picked up Billy from Doris’ care. Billy was dressed and groomed and appeared to have remembered to shave within the last forty-eight hours, and for a little while Michael felt like he could pretend that this was normal. That this was good. It was a short drive to the restaurant, and they got a quiet table in the corner (Michael had made a point to call ahead and reserve it because he hadn’t been willing to leave things to chance). The waitress came for their drink orders (waters all around, and a lemonade for Casey), and the awkward chit-chat began.

Billy had always been able to make small-talk. It had been one of his skills. But where he’d once been the force to drive conversation, regaling everyone with humorous (and largely false) anecdotes, his participation was now meager and largely restricted to short and undetailed responses. Rick took it upon himself to fill the void, and while his stories lacked Billy’s dramatic flair and his attempts to rope others into the conversation were somewhat clumsy, Michael was nonetheless grateful to him. 

They placed their orders amidst Rick’s tale of his disastrous high school prom (which Michael had to admit was fairly amusing – even Casey was smirking). But but the time the food arrived, talk had veered back toward Morovia. 

He hadn’t meant to let the topic come up, but it was difficult not to. It was the elephant in the room, after all. Rick, Michael, and Casey were neck-deep in efforts to recover intel on the current Morovian power-structure and the Narodny Dzida. And the missions were never far from any of their minds.

“We might be getting somewhere,” Rick hesitantly explained. “I mean, the intel Illyich gave us has checked out so far, and that arms cache –”

“–needs to be intercepted before Vereychek remembers about it and decides to put it to use,” Casey remarked around a mouthful of chicken tikka masala. 

“It isn’t a lot to go on, but unless that French intelligence turns up anything, it’s what we have. And considering how little we’ve had up to this point, it’s definitely a step in the right direction,” Michael confirmed, tearing off a piece of naan bread. 

Billy poked at his curry with a spoon, glancing at them, but saying nothing. 

“Though I have to say, I’d feel better about all of it if we had someone besides that slimeball feeding us information,” Casey added with an air of distaste.

“Illyich’s not so bad,” Michael said with a shrug, though he failed to sound convincing. “And beggars can’t be choosers.”

Billy’s brow furrowed in confusion. Rick picked up on it and moved to explain: “It’s been a bit rough getting intel out of Morovia since we lost all our assets,” he clarified.

Billy tensed for a moment, lowering his spoon and staring intently at the bowl in front of him. “Lost?” 

Rick shrugged with a grimace. “You know how over-cautious Higgins is. After you– after that arms deal mission went south, he had all the operatives in Morovia deactivated and put out the word for the assets to scatter. We’ve been flying pretty much blind since all our eyes in Morovia have gone to ground. Which is stupid and a total waste, since it’s not like you would ever break–”

There was a clatter as Billy dropped his spoon. For a second Michael thought it was just a sign that Billy was struggling with his grip again, but the Scot had stood up abruptly, white as a sheet. 

Billy opened his mouth as if to speak, but his breath hitched and caught. He stood for a brief moment, frozen, before turning and fleeing wordlessly from the restaurant. 

-o-

Billy didn’t run. But he was damn well close. For months he’d reduced his gait to a kind of contained shuffle, but now, for the first time in a long time, he walked with full strides, his long legs propelling him with urgency. Behind him he heard Rick shouting out his name, but he didn’t turn. Didn’t stop. 

He headed back to his motel flat. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but it was where his feet took him, his subconscious mind immediately searching for something familiar – something safe. His conscious mind focused entirely on trying to keep his breathing from launching into hyperventilation, and keeping himself from screaming. 

“Billy!”

He didn’t look.   
_  
“It’s not like you would ever break–”_ Rick had said. With such certainty. With such faith. Faith in Billy.

Stupid lad.

His leg muscles were beginning to ache slightly from the aggressive and uncharacteristic pace. Outside of physical therapy he’d been largely sedentary since his return, and it was beginning to show now that after only a few blocks he could feel himself getting out of breath. Still, he didn’t let himself slow until he reached the door.

That was when he realized Michael had his bloody keys. “Bollocks,” he muttered, slamming his fist against the flimsy door, gritting his teeth in frustration. Not that he’d never broken into his lodgings before... He reached into his pocket, pulling out a gum wrapper, some lint, a few coins, and a paperclip leftover from his days of stealing Langley office supplies in another lifetime. It was the work of seconds to straighten the paperclip out, but when he began to try to jimmy the lock, his hands, once deft and adept, forgot the motions. He wiggled the metal futilely, ready to scream in frustration even as he heard the footsteps of rest of the ODS, catching up.

He dropped the paperclip to the ground, turning away, face red with shame. Shame that he couldn’t get a flimsy motel lock open. Shame at being an invalid, treated like a child. Shame that Martinez still had such misplaced faith in him... 

Michael, to his eternal credit, immediately pulled out the keys and unlocked the door, but Billy wasn’t in a state of mind to be particularly grateful. He pushed past them into the safety of his dimly-lit rooms. 

The ODS followed.

“Billy,” Rick repeated, not shouting, but concern etched into his youthful features. “What’s wrong?”

Billy took a deep breath. Why was it so hard to breathe? He felt like his face was burning, his skin tingling as if it were trying to crawl right off his bones. When Rick reached a hand out to Billy’s arm, he flinched and pulled away.

The hurt look on Rick’s face was like a blow to the gut. Rick immediately pulled back, giving Billy space, nervously biting his lip.

They treated him like he might still break...

“Higgins made the right call,” he heard himself say, though the words felt heavy and foreign on his tongue. He wanted them to be someone else’s words. He wanted to be someone else. Anyone else...

Rick’s brow furrowed further, innocently perplexed. “What call? What do you mean?” he carefully pressed. Over his shoulder, though, Billy could see Michael’s face fall.

He wanted to stop. To lie. To just go curl up and not say anything and wait for them all the leave while he ran away into his own silence. He wanted to... mostly. But whatever part of Billy’s mind currently controlled his mouth wouldn’t let him. “Pulling out the agents and the assets. He was right,” he continued, feeling his chest tighten painfully.

Pain. Everything came back to pain –

They treated him like he might break –

Casey’s face had darkened as he connected the dots with crippling realization. Michael had gone white. And poor Rick was still looking at him blankly. “Billy...” He tentatively reached forward again.

It was too much.

“I _broke!_ ” 

He didn’t realize he’d shouted it. He hadn’t meant to. But there it was, out in the open now. 

Rick’s face crumbled. 

It was a trope of popular culture that spies lived in a world of poison pills and cyanide capsules – that death was preferable to capture, suicide preferable to revealing state secrets under torture. Unlike many ideas the general public seemed to have about the spy game, this one was rooted in truth. The spies who were lost behind enemy lines and ‘eaten by wolves’ were spoken about in the halls of the CIA in hushed and reverential breaths.

The ones who broke – who cracked under torture and gave up all they knew – were never spoken of at all. 

“I broke,” Billy repeated, voice cracking with strain. He wasn’t sure who the confession hurt more. Wasn’t sure he cared. He’d broken. But they’d _left him._ Like Simms, he’d been abandoned in hell until something had given and his core fortitude had unravelled at the seams. Like Simms, he’d betrayed the trust and faith that had been placed in him. And like Simms, all that was left in that tormented vacuum inside him was resentment and rage.

They’d been treating him like he might break; the truth was, he already had, and the poor bastards just didn’t know it. Didn’t know that what they’d poured all their energy and hope into saving over the last few months had never been worth rescuing. 

Poison pills and cyanide. _Better off dead.  
_  
“You were tortured,” Michael ventured, as if attempting to force an excuse. “Anyone in that situation–”

“I told them bloody everything,” Billy spat. He wanted no excuses. Not for him, not for any of it. “Names. Dates. Classified intelligence. Everything!”

They’d left him in the hands of the Commander and his men. They’d left him to be tortured, incessantly, unendingly. Until Billy had become useful.

They ought to have just left him to die.

“It’s not your fault,” Rick tried to absolve, having apparently found his voice, though it emerged with a tremor. “We know that. Billy, we’re your friends –”

“–I’m no friend to you,” Billy returned sharply, seething. “Not anymore.” He looked down, the shame burning away at him. “You waited too long. Shouldn’t have bothered coming at all.”

Rick’s expression was pained. “You didn’t know what you were doing...”

He tried, but Billy cut him off with a harsh laugh that was nearly a snarl of derision: “I remember everything, Martinez. I knew.” It was the last thing they’d taken from him – they’d broken his body and his mind and his soul and had taken all his dignity and all his hope until nothing had remained but his integrity as a spy. Then they’d broken him, and he’d finally shattered into a million secrets spilling out into a Morovian interrogation cell.

He’d had nothing.

Rick looked like he’d been punched, his face paler than it had been in the back of the van in South America after he’d been shot. Michael looked like he might be sick. Casey shook his head, his expression contorting in disgust as he turned and headed for the door.

Billy couldn’t blame him. It was the only sane reaction. 

Leaving. 

Leaving him alone.  
 _  
(Alone in the dark.)  
_  
“I’m sorry, Billy,” Rick croaked, looking as if he might cry. “I’m sorry. But it’s over now. Higgins got our people out safe and you’re home now–”

“Three months.” Billy chewed down on the inside of his lip until he tasted blood.

Rick blinked. “What?”

“Three months. Where the bloody hell were you lot? Having a lark?” Three months of hell. It might as well have been three years. ( _“Three long years... you know what that does to a man?” Simms had asked with a knowing smile..._ )

“We did everything we could,” Michael interrupted, frowning. “You know that isn’t fair.”

“ _Don’t talk to me about fair!_ ” Billy screamed, trembling with rage and God knew what else. “I _waited_ for you! I told him you’d come. I told myself you’d come.” And they hadn’t. Then they had. But by then it was too late. Long too late. 

“We came for you, Billy. We’d always come for you,” Rick protested, stepping forward and reaching out in a last-ditch effort to pull Billy back from the teetering edge. 

“Don’t,” he growled, putting his hands forward and harshly pushing Rick away, making the younger man stumble back a few paces. “Just don’t. Just... just go.” He looked away, unable to handle the look on Rick’s face – like a kicked dog. 

“Billy...” Michael looked pained, more lines in his face than Billy had remembered being there.

“Go.” 

“Billy –”

“GO!” he exploded, wishing he had something at hand to throw. But he was left with nothing but his voice, raw and aching.

He was left with nothing.

Nothing at all.

Rick looked lost and bereft, but Michael’s expression hardened into something stoney. “Come on, Martinez,” he finally murmured, placing a hand on Rick’s shoulder and pulling him back toward the door. Rick was too stricken to resist. And then the door closed and Billy was alone.

Billy was finally alone.

Which perhaps, was all he’d deserved to be all along. Billy charmed and cajoled and worked his way into people’s hearts, which only got them hurt. And that was on him. That guilt, that shame, that anguish...

It was all his fault. 

But they were gone now. He’d revealed the truth and it had driven them off and now Billy was standing in his motel room with the lights off, shaking.   
_  
Some things that broke could never be fixed.  
_  
And as he sank to the floor, hot tears springing to his eyes, Billy realized that maybe being left the bloody hell alone was all he’d wanted for his damned birthday after all.


	9. VIII. Ruins

VIII.  
Ruins  


_  
Billy would make himself go still after a moment, letting them hold him under. For about thirty seconds, it’d be easy. Only then, he began to feel the need for air. He tried to pull back up, but there was pressure on the back of his head, keeping him under the surface. His feet scrambled for a hold against the floor, and even though he told himself it would be easier if he didn’t struggle, he couldn’t help it. Logic got overridden by his body’s overwhelming need to breathe. His lungs burned and he thrashed as the water seeped into his eyes and seared its way up into his sinuses._

_He needed air._

_But there was only water._

_As his vision faded and his limbs went heavy, the grip on the back of his head finally reversed, pulling him up._

_And Billy gasped for air. Precious seconds passed where he said nothing; he was too busy gulping in oxygen._

_For a moment, they let him. But then the hand on the back of his head drove him down into the water as he took one last deep breath –_

_– and it started all over again._

_\---_

_When they pulled Billy out of isolation, tears had streamed down his face at the onslaught of light. Hours had become days had become eternities in the dark, with no one but the figments of his own guilty mind for company._

_He told himself it was the light that prompted the tears, and not relief._

_Because really, there was no relief._

_They took him to another cell, still stinking of its last inhabitant, but not wholly dark anymore. There was no bare and searing bulb in the ceiling, but there was a grate in the door that allowed the dim light of the hallway to pour in. He had a few hours’ reprieve there, out of the blackness, before the guards returned._

_And the abuse resumed._

_The Commander had been conspicuously absent since Tsykalov’s execution, and failed to make a reappearance with Billy’s removal from the hole. Instead, one of the uniformed men who had often flanked him – a Lieutenant of some sort – took over the duty of tormenting Billy with sick satisfaction._

_There was no relief._

_He remembered in the seminars he’d gone through both in MI6 and at the CIA during his orientation periods at both agencies, they’d spoken to him and the other fresh operatives about torture. About resisting interrogation. One of the ideas that had been put forth was that most tormentors would employ one consistent form of torture and stick to it – electrocution, strained postures, beatings – though it might go hand in hand with some other discomfort such as sleep deprivation or human degradation. A hodge-podge of mixed tortures would be unlikely._

_It seemed no one in Morovia had gotten that memo._

_At the start of his captivity, the Commander had promised innovation, and Billy had to credit the man – he hadn’t failed that promise. Billy had also claimed during that first fateful meeting that he liked surprises, which had turned out to be a complete lie: he didn’t like surprises anymore. He didn’t like them at all._

_That said, there wasn’t much to surprise him anymore._

_Because although the particular source of the pain might vary from vicious blows to some bugger with a sadistic smile and a cattleprod, the end result was the same. The patterns were the same. Every day they came for him and every day there was pain and every day they’d ask him the same questions while he refused to say a word. And every day they’d finally get tired of it and drop his broken, trembling, bleeding body back into his filthy cell. And every day, they’d do it over again._

_So when they marched him down the familiar stretch of hallway to the interrogation room and opened the door to reveal a trough of water where there had been none the day before, Billy felt little surprise. The permutations varied, but ultimately, from here, it was all the same._

_There was no relief._

_-o-_

_There was no..._

_-o-_

_...Relief._

_Billy almost forgot how to breathe, gagging and choking as his throat spasmed before opening, allowing him to suck down fresh gulps of air. The rush of blood in his ears was deafening, overpowering the sound of his interrogator. He didn’t even realize the man had asked him one of his stupid redundant questions until he smacked Billy hard upside the head and repeated himself._

_“Who are you?” he demanded with an unpleasant grin, accent so heavy the words were hardly recognizable._

_It was a farce of an interrogation. Billy had held out this long without a word, he wasn’t about to start now. He knew it. They knew it. Bloody hell, even if he were to spill his guts in front of God and everyone, this sod probably didn’t even speak more than a handful of words of English. They didn’t expect answers from him. This was probably entertainment as much as anything for them, though he didn’t doubt that the Commander had ordered for Billy’s torture to continue in his absence, just to wear away at him._

_Like water on a stone._

_Well, Billy thought, coughing up water that dribbled in a stream down his chin – water on something, at any rate._

_“Who are you?” The thick-necked Lieutenant smacked him again._

_Billy spat a mouthful of foul water out onto the floor by way of response. He had no wit left, no words, no pithy responses. They’d taken that from him._

_They’d taken an awful lot of things from him._

_First they’d taken his freedom. That he’d been able to live with – he’d been in captivity before, though admittedly never for long. Then they’d taken his strength, slowly wearing down his body’s reserves. They’d taken his dignity, shredding his clothing and leaving him to wallow in filth like an animal._

_They’d taken his only friend._

_Deprivation._

_That was the word for it. Deprived of mobility, of comfort, of self-respect.... deprived of company and kinship. Deprived of sleep. Deprived of light. Deprived of food and water._

_Deprived of air._

_Air!_

_Billy convulsed as stars exploded behind his eyes, the pressure in his skull and the burning in his lungs making him feel like his entire body would explode and implode simultaneously unless he could draw breath. He thrashed with growing desperation but decreased strength as his capacity to reflect upon his situation dwindled to the simple and singular want of air._

_He tried to breathe air._

_But there was only water._

_-o-_

_He regained consciousness on the drenched floor, shaking and coughing wretchedly. One of the guards kicked him in the gut, and Billy vomited up the brackish water he couldn’t remember swallowing. Or inhaling, for that matter, though the dampness of his cough and struggle to breathe suggested he must have._

_The lieutenant leaned down, peering at him for a moment, then straightened with a grunt, apparently satisfied that he hadn’t accidentally drowned the prisoner. “Uvedite yego,” he growled to one of the guards, who hauled Billy to his feet with evident distaste._

_For a second, he thought the dunking would resume, but instead the guard dragged him toward the door, pausing to get a better hold under Billy’s armpits as the Scot’s legs were no longer able to support his dwindling weight._

_No more drowning. No more water. It was over._

_(It was never over).  
_

-o-

The last thing Michael said to Billy in Morovia, before all this happened, _was we’ll come back to get you.  
_  
Michael did go back. It took him three months, but he still went back. And he’d been going back again and again. Taking Billy to therapy, keeping him company, making sure that he was eating and sleeping and bathing. Michael kept coming back because he was still looking for Billy.

The problem was that Billy was right there. And yet, not there at all.

When Billy had gone missing, he had thought walking away would be the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.

Standing there, outside of Billy’s motel room, Michael realized he was wrong.

He was wrong about a lot of things.

Next to him, Rick seemed to be frozen. Martinez had clung hardest to the hope; he’d been almost relentless in his belief, and the revelation was clearly more than the kid could handle. He stared, slack jawed. Then he shook his head. “We can’t leave,” he said, but there was no passion in his voice any more. No determination. The words were hollow, the sentiment desperate.

Michael gathered a breath as best he could. “I’m sorry, Martinez.”

Rick startled and looked at him, shaking his head again. “It’s not his fault,” he said quickly. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And it doesn’t change anything--”

His voice faltered, his expression wavering precariously.

Michael felt his shoulders slump. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not his fault. And he probably doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about. But I think it might change something.”

Rick looked helpless. “But it’s _Billy._ ”

It was Billy. And that was what made this so hard. This was Billy. Happy, resilient, strong, capable -- and now totally broken. After the months of Billy being missing, the weeks of catatonia, the endless period of depression -- Billy was still missing, just as broken forever.

He wondered what it was. How long Billy had lasted. What forms of leverage had they used. Waterboarding? Electrocution? Sleep deprivation? Michael knew the tactics; he knew the efficient means of application. But what had brought about the finishing blow? What was it that had taken Michael’s best friend and turned him into _that_?

And still, it wasn’t Billy’s fault. It was Michael’s. It would always be Michael’s.

He’d promised he’d come back.

He’d been too late.

Billy broke, not just from torture, but from a loss of hope. He’d broke, and now they were all in pieces. Ruins. There was nothing left.

“I know,” Michael replied finally, and he had no more words. No more platitudes. Because there was nothing left at all.

-o-

The next day, Michael went to work. When he got there, Rick and Casey were already in. Blanke nodded at him in the hallway, and it was like nothing had changed. The hours were long, though, and Michael found himself glancing at the clock, still mentally tracking Billy’s schedule instead of focusing on the intelligence in front of him.

By mid-morning, it felt like a lifetime had gone by and Michael had never been so glad for a team meeting in his life.

Casey started by tossing a stack of photos in the middle of the conference table. “It checks out,” he said. 

Michael glanced down at the photos, trying to feel interested.

“We’ve got satellite images on the site dating back two years,” Casey confirmed. “The activity level is highly indicative of it as a cache of some sort. Lots of shipments and armed men in and out.”

Michael finally picked up the top photo. “These look pretty quiet now,” he observed.

“That’s because they are,” Casey said. “Activity dropped off a few months ago.”

Michael’s mind made the implicit connection. “When Vereychek made his move to power,” he realized. “So Illyich came through.”

Casey pursed his lips. “The little weasel may have actually earned his paycheck this time.”

Still seated on the far side of the table, Rick shrugged. “So what difference does that make?” he asked. “Groups abandon bunkers all the time.”

Michael gave Rick a cautious look; the younger man had come to work, but he was clearly not invested in what they were doing. Michael understood, but could no more validate the behavior than he could condemn it.

Casey, however, seemed entirely engrossed. “They left in a hurry,” he said. “So we might get lucky and see what sort of things they had in there.”

“And even if we don’t, we should still be able to scout out the scope of their facilities,” Michael said. “The more we know, the better portfolio we can build. If we can paint a picture of the Narodny Dzida as an international threat, then we can possibly get the UN and NATO involved.”

“And then we can fight a war without using a single bullet,” Casey said, a little smug. “Not that election monitors and sanctions are going to make a huge difference.”

“But in a country this unstable, they could just tip the balance back in the right direction,” Michael concluded.

Rick stared glumly at the intelligence. Then he laughed, a bitter, humorless laugh. “All this, and we’re going to solve the problem with a few photos?”

“And hopefully some documentation as well,” Casey said. “I know it’s not as glorious as you might like--”

Rick’s eyes turned to Casey, expression hardening. “This isn’t about that,” he growled.

Casey shrugged coolly. “This is what it’s about,” he said. “We’ve had too many failed missions in Morovia. It’s time to make this one actually count for something or the entire last year of our lives has been a waste.”

Rick visibly flinched, but this time, he couldn’t deny it. 

Michael felt the coldness of the truth settle heavily in his stomach. “As it is, I think we have enough this time,” he said, painfully not saying the one thing that they were thinking. “The location looks good and the possible intelligence gains definitely warrant a mission. We can get photos, maybe collect manifests. Who knows what they left among the ruins of that place. The more we can gather, the better case the UN will have against Vereychek’s makeshift government.”

Casey smirked. “A mission with subterfuge, danger and weaponry,” he said, sounding genuinely happy. “I can hardly wait.”

Rick looked down, noticeably pale. Michael tried to smile, but put the photo back down and went back to his desk to keep working instead.

-o-

This was how life was supposed to be.

Billy slept in the day. Sometimes he curled up on the sheets; other times, he pulled himself into the corner. He pulled the curtains shut tight and blocked out the light and positioned himself with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. He stared at nothing, stared and stared until he finally fell asleep.

At night, he found himself awake. He didn’t turn on the lights, just walked through the flat in slow, monotonous circles, memorizing the path until it was the only thing he was aware of.

Sometimes he remembered other things. He ate on and off, until the food went bad. Doing dishes didn’t matter because he drank from containers, eating with his hands out of jars. He wiped his hands on his pants, and tried to remember when he’d changed. Two days ago. More. How long had he been here?

It didn’t matter. Day was night, and night was day. And Billy slept and ate only because he had nothing else to do. He showered once, a few days ago. A week ago?

There was no more time.

There was nothing.

He walked in the dark, counting his paces. Five steps to the couch; three more to the dinette set. Farther to the bedroom, just a ways to the cool tile in the bathroom. This was what he understood. This was how he knew to comprehend. It was familiar, this blackness. Enveloping and terrifying and _right._ He didn’t like it -- it screamed at him, darkened his senses until he _hurt_ \-- but there was a comfort to it that he would no longer deny.

No one could see him here.

Maybe then he wouldn’t exist. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe he hadn’t been tortured in a cell. Maybe he hadn’t betrayed his friends and his colleagues. Maybe he hadn’t become the very thing he’d fought against, he’d tried to prove himself otherwise. A traitor.

He was a traitor. His homeland had figured that out years ago, and he’d balked so proudly. But they were right. Billy had proved them right.

And for what? What had he gained for his treason? What had he gleaned?

Nothing. There had been no reprieve. There had been no death. There was just _nothing.  
_  
He could fight, he knew. To prove himself. For Rick and for Michael and for Casey. For all they went through to bring him back, to give him this second chance. They’d never given up on him, even when they should have.

But he couldn’t. And that alone made him even more unworthy of anything. 

In the dark, he could hide his shame. In the dark, he was already lost.

Still, the irony was not lost on him. He wasn’t as far gone as he hoped. He’d spent so much time lost in the dark, trapped and neglected and desperate. He’d screamed for someone to come back for him. He pounded the walls until his knuckles bled and begged just to know he was still alive.

And now he was doing it to himself.

He was taking his second chance and burying it. He was burning it, destroying it, flaying it. He was ripping it apart, because he didn’t deserve it.

He deserved this. The dark. He deserved to be alone. He should have died in that cell, should have died alone and pathetic, and now maybe he could.

Or maybe, he’d just live like this forever. Because the last lesson he’d learned -- the one that still mattered most -- was that men like him, men who betrayed everything -- didn’t even deserve death.

They deserved to live forever, knowing their shame and never escaping it.

No matter who rescued him, Billy could never escape this fate.

-o-

Habits were hard to break, and Michael would give Billy the space he asked for, but that didn’t mean he was going to stay away. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. It just wasn’t in Michael’s nature.

Every morning, he still drove by Billy’s motel. He parked in the lot, peering up through the window. Billy’s curtains were drawn, and Michael never saw any movement. On the way home, he stopped by again, sometimes stopping to eat some carryout while he watched. If he bought extra, just in case, he told himself that he’d eat the leftovers for lunch the next day.

If Billy wanted help, he’d ask for it. If Billy wanted Michael there, he’d say so.

Until then, Michael would have to respect that. Billy didn’t have anything else, and Michael didn’t know how to be there for him in any other way.

Mostly, Michael didn’t know anything at all.

The bug in Billy’s suite didn’t pick up much. Whenever Michael checked for reception, all signs indicated it was working, but there was never much sound. The occasional movement, but no conversation. No music. Nothing.

He paid the maid to report to him about the condition of the room, but after a few days, she gave the money back, saying that Billy had refused service. He sent Blanke by a few times, just to drop off a pizza. He said Billy answered the door, took the food, and that was that.

That was that.

Michael sat in his car and stared at a closed window, not even sure what the hell he was hoping for anymore.

-o-

Fay grabbed his arm in the hall. “Hey,” she said, pulling him down the hallway after her.

“Hey,” he replied, stumbling along behind her. He let himself be dragged into her office, where she promptly closed the door and pinned him with a look. Pursing his lips, he straightened his coat. “Something you want to talk about?”

“You haven’t asked me to sit with Billy in almost a week,” she said flatly.

Michael gauged her, noting the tension in her forehead. She wasn’t happy, and Michael wasn’t sure why. In cases such as these, he’d learned to hedge his bets. 

He shrugged. “You said you were swamped.”

“And you said you couldn’t leave him alone,” she said. “But I’ve seen you here, every day. Rick and Casey, too.”

Michael let out a careful breath. He hadn’t told any of the others about Billy’s revelation. Part of him hoped that if he didn’t say it out loud, then maybe he could pretend it hadn’t happened. “He’s a lot better,” he told her, which was an interesting interpretation of the facts. “Pretty much cognizant all the time. He doesn’t need a sitter anymore.”

Fay inclined her head. “Oh, really?” she asked, in that way of hers. That way that let Michael knew he’d just walked into one of her traps and she’d caught him with a lie. “Then why is he skipping his therapy?”

The frankness of it made Michael wince. It was a fact he’d purposefully neglected. Billy’s driver’s license had lapsed over the last year, and while public transit had been an option, he knew that the odds of Billy getting on a bus without completely melting down were pretty slim. If he’d wanted to go, he would have called. If not Michael or Rick, Fay or Adele or Doris or Blanke. He could have gone.

Though Michael had known he wouldn’t.

It was a sign of just how badly compromised Michael was in this that he had failed to anticipate Fay finding out. Which, she would, of course. Billy was on disability leave, and his benefits were partly tied to his ongoing therapy. If he started shirking on them, HR would find out. And then HR would talk to Fay.

“What are you doing, Michael?” Fay continued, in flat out accusation now. “I thought you were taking care of this.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“He’s a survivor of _torture,_ ” Fay clarified for him. “And he has severe post-traumatic stress. Legally, he _can’t_ make these decisions. _You_ can.”

“That was when he was unconscious and catatonic. He’s awake and aware now,” Michael explained with as much logic as he could muster. “I can’t keep making all his choices for him. He’s been forced to do too many things already.”

“You’re trying to _help_ him,” she said, hands out in frustration now. “He _needs_ help.”

“He needs to start being his own person again.”

She scoffed. “That sounds like a copout.”

“It’s all I’ve got anymore,” he snapped back, feeling defensive now. “At a certain point, he has to want to get better.”

“So, what, he reached the magical cutoff period for dealing with his torture? And now you’re just leaving him to his own devices?” she asked.

“I’m doing what he wants,” Michael told her, trying to make her understand. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it to be like this. But he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know anything anymore.

Her gaze didn’t flicker. “And if he wants to die?”

Michael held his breath and swallowed hard. The thought was almost too much, but everything was too much. From the moment he’d lost Billy, it had been too much and all these months later, Michael was finally starting to realize how much it _hurt._

His chest ached and his jaw locked for a moment. Fay’s stare was unrelenting, and he felt himself crumbling beneath it. He had to be strong for Casey and for Rick. He had to be strong in the halls and in Higgins’ office. But he couldn’t do it here. 

He let out his breath and felt his reserves waver. “He broke, Fay,” he said, the words out before he could think to stop them.

For a moment, she stared at him, as if unable to comprehend.

Michael drew another ragged breath. “He broke.”

She hesitated, the anger stalling for a moment. “But how can you be sure?”

“He told us,” he said. “He remembers everything. And he broke.”

At that, she dropped her head. She took a moment to breathe, even steady breaths and when she looked up again, her face was carefully composed. “Michael, you’ve read the file on these people,” she told him, her voice almost gentle now. “You know what they do. You know how good they are. He was gone three months. You had to realize it was a possibility.”

She wasn’t trying to be mean now. There was no venom, no pride. The simple honesty was the thing he’d always loved most about her.

He nodded tightly. “I know,” he said, the words almost sticking in his throat. “I just...I don’t know, didn’t want to think about it. Hoped it wasn’t true, maybe.”

Because he had known. The signs had been there all along. Higgins hadn’t pulled the operatives and told the assets to go to ground lightly. People broke. Torture was designed to extract information, and that was what it did more often than not. The lucky ones were rescued before it became a problem. Or they died. 

The rest...the ones who they couldn’t rescue. The ones who were denied death...they broke. Michael had hoped that three months wouldn’t be too long. But he knew the moment they opened that cell, the moment they found Billy’s crippled, emaciated body -- the captors had taken everything from Billy.

From all of them. The reason he was wasting away in a cell and not in a makeshift grave with a bullet in his head was because Billy had proven useful in the end. 

Michael had been too slow.

Fay moved forward now, a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault,” she said, because she knew him better than she wanted to admit. 

“I told him I’d come back for him,” Michael told her.

“And you did.”

“But I was too late,” he said. 

“Breaking isn’t everything,” Fay said. “I mean, we protect State secrets as best we can, but if that’s all this is about, then we’re not better than they are. Billy’s alive and he’s come a long way. He has a lot further to go, but that’s why he _needs_ you. Now more than ever. You can’t give up on him now.”

She was imploring him, speaking to the integrity he thought he had. But he didn’t know how to find it anymore. 

He shook his head. “I don’t know how to help him.”

“Figure it out,” she said. “I know you. You can do anything. But you can’t just leave him by himself. If you do, then this time you’re going to lose him for real.”

It was a sympathetic warning, but a warning nonetheless. One he wanted to heed.

He held her gaze, feeling his raw emotions threaten his composure. He swallowed and refused to acknowledge the burning behind his head. Instead, he held his head steady, and steeled himself as best he could. “That’s the problem,” he admitted. “I think I already have.”

-o-

When the knock sounded at the door, Billy froze.

Visitors weren’t unheard of, but the entire idea of it still made him flinch. No one ever came by for their own leisure. The guards came to torture him. These people -- _his friends_ \-- Billy wasn’t sure why they came at all.

Another knock resounded, and Billy stared at the door. He came to slowly realize that he was pressed against the kitchen cabinets on the floor. He’d come down here for a reason, though what that was had long since escaped him. Maybe to find something. Maybe he’d gotten tired. Maybe because he’d been hungry--

Another knock, and this time a voice. “Billy? It’s Fay,” the voice called. The knocking resume with more vigor. “I know you’re in there.”

Somehow that seemed ironic. Billy wasn’t sure he was in here at all.

“I may not be a field operative, but I still know how to pick a lock,” she continued.

Billy considered this. Considered Fay. Michael’s ex-wife. They still loved each other. It seemed silly to him now, two people who loved each other but who couldn’t make it work. As if the greatest pains in life were how to roll a tube of toothpaste and whose family to visit at Christmas. If they knew, if they understood, they’d cling to each other and never let go.   
_  
Never let go.  
_  
Billy had let go. Billy had let go of everything--

“Okay, I don’t want to do this,” Fay called, and Billy heard her rummaging around, something fiddling with the lock.

Billy’s heart skipped a beat, and he had to remind himself that she was a friend. Whatever that meant to someone like him.

He managed to get to his feet just as she opened the door, pulling back on the handle the same time she pushed in. She looked up at him in surprise. “Didn’t feel like answering?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I figured I’d prevent you from committing a felony on my account.”

She regarded him coolly. “How thoughtful,” she said.

“That’s me,” he said, moving back into the flat. “Always thinking of others.”

She followed slowly, flicking on the light as she came in. The brightness blinded Billy for a moment, and it took his self-control not to bury his head underneath the nearest blanket. Instead, he looked back, watching Fay as she eyed his place with a look of wonder and carefully controlled disgust. “You know they offer maid service here, right?”

Billy looked around, seeing it as if for the first time. It wasn’t the warm, familiar mess he’d been accustomed to before, but it looked like an animal’s den: dark, dingy and disarrayed. “I’ve appreciated the time alone,” he said.

“Yeah,” Fay said. “About that. I hear you’ve been skipping your therapy.”

Billy sat down on the couch. “Can’t drive.”

She moved around to look at him, exasperation evident on her face. “That’s an excuse,” she said. “You know all you have to do is call. Any one of us. And we’ll be here with whatever you need.”

Billy looked at her carefully. She was here of her own accord, that much he was able to gather from her general stance alone. This was not an errand Michael had sent her on, but rather one she had taken upon herself for some reason. Concern, because they did have a history together. He had saved Michael’s life more than once, and Fay had been at bedside vigils for all of them. Responsibility, perhaps, because the Agency still retained something of an all for one, one for all attitude, even to spies such as himself.

Pity, he realized. Michael was good at keeping secrets, but Fay was just as good at discerning them. This had been a critical point in their marriage, and it was still a part of who they were. Michael had told her.

At first, there was a surge of anger, but it was followed quickly by grim satisfaction. They all deserved to know, every last person at the Agency. They deserved to know what kind of man he was, to speak his name with contempt. He could be the moral lesson for the ages, what not to do. They could study him and learn from his mistakes, dissect him and point out his missteps so no one else would break like he did.

So no one else would be as weak as he was.

When there was nothing left, all he could do was take their pity. Along with their hate, their shame, their vitriol.

Fay looked back at him. She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. “So?” she asked.

He blinked, remembering that an answer was still expected of him. “I’m sorry, what?”

She sighed. “Why aren’t you going?”

He couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped his lips. “Why bother?”

It was the truth, and he no longer regretted saying it. He couldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t anymore. Couldn’t pretend like he belonged to any of this. He didn’t belong with the Agency, these good people. He didn’t belong _here,_ in this life. He belonged in a cell, alone and naked and--

“Because you’re here,” she said, matter of fact. “You’re alive. You beat insurmountable odds to get here.”

He scoffed. “I was better off there,” he said. “I don’t belong here, not anymore.”

“But you _are_ here,” she said, emphatic now. “And what else are you going to do?”

Billy looked around his barren apartment. Looked down at himself. There was nothing left of him. He still craved oblivion, but it had been refused to him. Maybe that was too easy of an out. An escape he didn’t deserve.

There were worse things than death, and Billy had earned them all by his weakness.

Fay came around, sitting down lightly on the chair across from him. She looked at him intently. “Things don’t always work out the way we think they will,” she said. “And we all make mistakes we want to take back, some worse than others. But that’s not the point. The point is what you do with it, how you move past it.”

She was sincere; she cared. It wasn’t just pity, then. She wanted this for him, wanted it more than he did.

But she also didn’t know. Even if she knew the facts, she didn’t _know._ “It’s a nice sentiment,” he said. “But I’m a lost cause.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “A lost cause is what we say when we don’t want to try anymore,” she said. “Trust me, I know. I walked away from a marriage for that very reason. And I’m not saying this is the same thing because I know I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. But there’s something better on the other side of this. I know there is.”

But Fay didn’t know anything. She had the right words and the right heart, but she didn’t know anything at all.

“Besides,” she said, getting to her feet again. “You’re forgetting something.”

He looked up at her, a bit surprised.

“I’m not asking this time,” she said.

He stared, shocked.

“If you want to self destruct, you’re going to have to make the choice a little clearer,” she said, her tone leaving him no room for argument. “I’m not about to sit here and let you wither away to nothing while there’s still something I can do about it. Now get up and get dressed. We’ll grab something to eat along the way.”

It took a moment, but Billy got dressed. He found that his clothes were bigger than before, and he didn’t have time to shave the beard. Still, he walked out of his flat on his own two feet, giving Fay a look as he went.

“Glare all you want,” she said. “But if you don’t start improving your attitude toward me, I’ll pick the place for lunch and I warn you, I have an unhealthy desire for Greek food right now.”

All he could do was look at her.

Fay shrugged. “Time to start making choices, Billy,” she said. “Whether you trust yourself or not.”

-o-

The intelligence was sound. The details were in order. Michael had a tentative cover and a solid plan of attack. In all, it wasn’t the most thorough mission he’d ever planned, but it certainly wasn’t the most pathetic one he’d managed to scrape together.

Besides, he’d always figured that the key to getting mission approval was all in how he packaged it. He knew Higgins well enough to know what buttons to push, how to play the man to get the outcome he wanted.

But this time, he just didn’t have the energy. He wasn’t even sure he wanted mission approval, no matter how valid the stakes were.

He had a job to do, though, and he was going to do it. No matter what.

That didn’t mean he was going to do it with a flourish, though.

Instead, he presented the facts, laid out the needs, the contingencies and the protocols and sat back to wait. He made no impassioned pitches. Offered no tantalizing tidbits to whet Higgins’ appetite. The mission spoke for itself, and the mission was all Michael had at this point.

Higgins nodded slowly. He had asked a few questions, throughout, clarifying the points, but now he watched Michael carefully. His gaze went steady from Michael, to Casey, to Rick, before he gathered a breath and let it out. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped his pen absently on his desk. “This is good,” he said finally, nodding toward the report on his desk.

Michael didn’t reply. Next to him, Rick was looking at his hands. Casey stared at the Director hard.

“If we can gather enough meaningful intelligence about their capabilities and history, then we may have enough to make a compelling pitch to the international community,” he said. “A few well placed leaks, and we may be able to swing the international tide against Morovia and control the situation without further risk or casualty.”

“That’s the idea,” Michael said lamely.

Higgins paused again, clearly going over something in his head. Finally, he sat forward. “And you think the three of you are up to the task?” he asked. “All things considered?”

All things considered, Michael thought. Considering that Billy had been captured, tortured, catatonic, and so depressed that he either wanted to die or just wanted to be left alone. Considering that they’d left Billy behind to _break,_ and now there was nothing left but pieces for all of them.

He forced a smile. “We’re the only team ready,” he said. “All things considered.”

Higgins didn’t disagree. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal about adding a fourth member to your team?” he asked.

Rick stiffened, but didn’t protest. Casey didn’t even flinch.

Michael gritted his teeth. “We’re still thinking about it,” he said.

Higgins nodded. “Good,” he said. “Good. Very well, then. You have approval. Get your things together and let me know about another team member as soon as possible. We can tentatively plan your mission for early next week, which should still give us adequate time to prepare.”

It seemed reasonable. A solid plan. That was all Michael asked for most of the time.

These days, though, it just didn’t seem like enough.

-o-

No one said anything until they got back to the office. Michael was too exhausted to work, but he sat down heavily and stared at his desk, as if he could pretend his way into making things normal again.

Not that Michael actually remembered normal. He tried to think about that, a time when they’d been whole. When Casey had been checking his email and Rick was decorating his desk. Michael was reading the latest best seller while Billy leaned back in his chair to do the crossword.

Billy was good at crossword puzzles. He knew all the literary references, knew too many synonyms. He said he liked to challenge his mind, but Michael had always suspected it had been nothing more than an outlet for his otherwise excessive energy levels.

And Billy used to write bad poetry and post it on the bulletin board. He used to take awkward photos and write silly captions. He would wander the halls and come back with the latest stories. When things were too quiet, he would start to sing. When things were too dull, he would tell a story.

Billy used to be a lot of things.

Billy was gone.

Michael swallowed so hard that he nearly choked. He was almost grateful when Casey said, “I think we should do it.”

He blinked rapidly, looking up with total composure. “What?” he asked.

Casey was watching him. “We should take Higgins up on his offer,” he said. “He’s not a man known for his generosity. The offer of a fourth member is a limited time deal.”

It was ironic, Casey wanted another teammate. He’d been adamantly against Rick in the beginning, and Michael could even recall his disdain for letting Billy on the team six years ago. Casey wasn’t one to think he needed backup, even if he appreciated it from time to time.

But this wasn’t about backup. This was about moving on. When they’d lost Simms, they’d been able to get through that together. Now, with Billy, they had nothing left. If they couldn’t bring Billy back, filling the void was the next best thing in Casey’s mind. It could be as if Billy had never existed, as if there was nothing to miss, no one to grieve.

Denial, plain and simple. He looked at Casey coldly. “You really think it’s that simple?” he asked.

Casey was entirely nonchalant. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “It’s a dangerous mission. The more hands on deck, the better.”

The pragmatism was believable. It was also valid.

It was also a lie.

One that Michael was starting to crave himself. It would be easier, in some ways. Having a new guy to distract them. Someone to break in. Someone to sit in the desk and help them forget. Someone to tag along and introduce, someone for other people to ask about so they wouldn’t have to offer the same platitudes about Billy’s lack of progress.

In those ways, it would be so much easier.

And then, not at all.

Michael glanced sideways toward Rick. This was usually his part, when he jumped in to make the obvious counterarguments. That they couldn’t just let Billy go. That after everything, they owed him more than this. That they couldn't leave him behind.

But Rick wasn’t even looking. He was staring at his desk, just sitting there, expression tightly controlled as he refused to look up.

In the end, everybody broke it seemed. No matter how defiant, no matter how passionate. In the end, some things were just inevitable.

Michael looked away. There was nothing to see there. And really, there was nothing left to do. He let his gaze go back to Casey and he shrugged. “Maybe,” he consented. “I’ll think about it. We don’t have to decide yet. We’ve still got a week.”

Casey nodded his approval, but there was no satisfaction in it. Rick had nothing to say, and his silence was an uncomfortable consent. Michael stared at his desk and wished there was another option, but started to realize that maybe there wasn’t.

-o-

“You stopped coming,” his therapist observed.

Billy gave her a look, smiling ruefully, bitterly. “How uncannily observant,” he said.

His harsh reply didn’t seem to have any effect on her. Instead, she pressed on. “Do you think you don’t need to come anymore?”

At that, Billy laughed. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “I’m entirely cured. Ready to fully integrate back into normal and well-functioning society.”

“So why did you stop coming?”

“Maybe I was bored,” he said, throwing the answer out there flippantly, even as he juggled his knees uncomfortably. This room was too bright; there were too many nice things. A vase with real flowers. Framed pictures on the walls. A pitcher of water. Awards perched on shelves. Books bound in thick leather. It was too comfortable, too perfect. No one lived like this. No one _deserved_ to live like this.

“Were you?”

Billy flinched at her voice, diverting his attention back to her. He swallowed and managed something of a smile but it felt like a sneer. “You know me,” he said, “ever the full social calendar to fill.”

She waited for more, watching him carefully. It made him grit his teeth hard, doing his best to stop fidgeting even as everything inside of him wanted to bolt.

She kept waiting, and finally Billy couldn’t take it anymore. “No more questions?” he asked. “That’s quite disappointing. The one thing I can count on is questions when coming here. Well, that and water with lemon. Beats the stuff out of the tap, every time.”

He was rambling, not quite nonsensically, but he didn’t know how to stop. Once he started talking, there was no filter, no way to pull it back. When he broke--

He didn’t let himself finish the thought. He didn’t let himself think at all. He blanked his mind, staring at the framed art on the wall, seeing his own hunched reflection over her shoulder.

“Therapy isn’t about questions,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked, looking at her again. “So the comfortable interrogation sessions have been for your own amusement?”

“Therapy is about recognizing our own thought processes and learning how to understand them.”

“Self empowerment,” Billy noted. “Though the same could be said for most forms of brainwashing.”

“Is that what you think this is?” she pressed.

His frustration built and he blew out an angry breath, rubbing a hand uncertainly through his too-long hair. “I don’t know what I bloody think this is,” he said. “I’m not here because I want to be, but no one has cared about that, not since I was nabbed from an alleyway in Morovia all those months ago. I’m a prisoner, a victim, a failed friend, a spy who screwed up and apparently your little community service project. So maybe you should just tell me what you want to hear and you can sign your little form to say that I’m a reasonably functioning adult and we can both move on with our miserable lives.”

The outburst was more than he had spoken in weeks, maybe months. Maybe since he’d been rescued. His heart was racing, his palms sweating and he felt light headed. Inexplicably, he wanted to cry, just as much as he wanted to smash the room to pieces just to do _something._

And his therapist didn’t even flicker. She seemed to wait until he was calmed down enough to focus on her again, and then she said, “There are no right answers here, Billy. I’m not looking for something in particular.”

“Then how am I supposed to ever be done with this?” he said, almost exploding now. He flung his arm out in desperation. “At least in that cell they had a purpose. At least they knew what they wanted so that when I finally gave it to them they finally left me to wallow in my misery and die alone and pathetic. I had thought _that_ was torture, but _this_ may be even worse!”

His eyes were burning now, chest so tight that it hurt. He was trembling, feeling precarious as he sat on the over-stuffed couch.

“It’s not my intention to torture you,” she said, voice softer now. She put her paper down, leaning forward a bit to look at him earnestly. “What happened to you is something that most people can’t ever understand. Even if we know the facts of what happened, it doesn’t capture the psychological impact. Everyone heals in their own time and in their own way, but sooner or later, you do have to make a choice.”

“And what choice is that?” Billy asked, voice hoarse.

“The choice to walk out of that interrogation room on your own,” she said. “You can be rescued, your body can be mended, you can live in your old apartment, but until you choose to leave, then there’s nothing anyone can do for you.”

He felt like he could breathe, and he almost couldn’t see. It took all his effort just to breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out. After a long moment, he shook his head. “That’s a lovely sentiment,” he said, the words gravelly in his constricted throat, “but what I want in all of this doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t deserve to come out. I broke in that room, and that was my choice.”

He took a breath, the tears fading and a steady certainty growing darkly in their place. “And no matter what you do, no matter how my mates try to help,” he said, words clear, eyes focused, because he needed to say this, “that’s the only choice that matters in the end.”

-o-

They had a week, but each day that passed got them no closer to an answer. Casey went about his job like nothing had changed, matter of fact and to the point. Martinez was unusually quiet, nervous but focused, and Michael found himself just trying to get by. 

He worked late, got in early. He drove by Billy’s whenever he was in the car, and spent his time at work poring over the files he’d had for weeks now, trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

They were leaving tomorrow. The offer of a new operative was still on the table, and Casey hadn’t mentioned it again, but Michael could read his meaningful looks clearly enough. After nearly a week, Michael was almost relieved when the other operative went home for the night to prep for their departure.

In the desk next to his, however, Martinez showed no signs of leaving. Normally, Michael might try to assess what Rick was doing, but to be frank, Michael didn’t have the energy for it. When things got tough, when they were stuck among the emotional ruins of it all, apparently it was every man for himself. The ODS was just as human and fallible as the rest of the world.

It was humbling.

It was numbing.

Michael wasn’t sure how he was ever going to go home.

After a while, Rick spoke. “You’re not going to take on someone new,” he said.

Michael looked at him, a little surprised. 

Rick wasn’t asking, but he also wasn’t ordering. He was sitting at his desk, staring across the way to Billy’s still empty seat. They hadn’t changed anything. The unneeded files were still askew, a half finished crossword on the top. Billy’s haphazardly kept dayplanner was open to the day they’d first left for Morovia.

Rick took another breath. “We’re not going to take on someone new,” he said, even more definitive this time.

Michael sighed. “And why do you say that?”

Rick turned to Michael, his brown eyes earnest. “Because you know it wouldn’t be right,” he said.

Shoulders slumping, Michael leaned back in his chair. “Martinez, this mission isn’t going to be easy,” he said. “We could use the extra backup.”

Rick shook his head, adamant. “It’s not _right,_ ” he said.

“Martinez--”

“It doesn’t matter if he broke,” Rick said, not letting him finish. “I mean, I never thought-- But, it doesn’t change anything. I know he blames himself and I know he blames us, but you said it yourself. We can’t forget who the enemy is. Billy needs us.”

“Maybe,” Michael relented. “But what if he doesn’t want us anymore?”

Rick’s expression intensified. “We owe him more than this,” he said. “We owe him whatever it takes.”

It was a fact Michael had wrestled with all day. Every day since Billy went missing. “He’s not coming back,” he said. “Even if he could pass a physical, the psychological damage is too severe. And that’s not even starting on the intelligence risk--”

“That’s not what this is about and you _know_ it,” Rick cut in sharply.

Michael’s words cut off, dying in his throat.

“This is about the fact that Billy broke and now suddenly we think he’s not worth the effort,” he said.

It was blunt, but it wasn’t entirely without precedence. Billy’s revelation had changed everything, but only because it forced Michael to realize just how bad this situation was. It had made Michael accept his failure.

He took a breath, then another. When he looked at Rick, it was as honest as he had ever been with the kid. “Billy’s always going to be part of this team,” he began. “He’s always going to be one of us, just as much as Carson Simms is. And I want to be there for Billy. I don’t blame him for breaking. But it changes things. Whether I like it or not, it changes everything.”

Rick’s eyes glistened. “He’s a good spy,” he said, voice tenuous.

“He was a good spy,” Michael clarified. “Right now, he’s just a broken man.”

Rick’s countenance wavered, threatening to break.

When Michael continued, it was gentle but firm. “We can’t keep expecting him to come back,” he said, the finality settling coldly in his stomach. This was the simple truth, the one fact that remained now that everything else was finally and painfully stripped away. “That’s no good for us, and it’s no good for him.”

Swallowing, Rick sat stiffly, as if any move would shatter him.

Finally, Michael got up. Lingering by Rick’s desk, he put a heavy hand on Martinez’s shoulder. “I’m not going to ask for another teammate,” he said. “But when we go back, we’re going without Billy, and that’s the reality we need to learn to accept.”

He patted his shoulder one more time, squeezing before he let go and slowly walked toward the door. He wanted to say more, he wanted to do more, but there was nothing left.

So Michael opened the door and walked out.

-o-

Billy lay on the couch, staring at the telly without actually watching. It was on, but the programming was just white noise. Nothing that he enjoyed.

He didn’t enjoy much of anything these days. 

He’d tried picking up his guitar and strumming it, but he’d only played two dissonant chords before he’d stopped, phantom pain creeping into his supposedly-healed fingers. Similarly, he’d looked at his books, flipping through them idly, but the words and carefully-crafted phrases he’d treasured through so much of his life seemed now empty and pointless. 

Words used to be his armor; his shield and his recourse.

Then words had become his undoing.

He’d turned away from everything. Lost joy in everything. And for a while, he’d raged at it. He’d been angry – with himself, with his team, with the world... 

But now he was just tired and overwhelmed with crippling apathy.

So he lay on the couch, half-dressed, unshaven and unwashed and a bit hungry, but too unmotivated to do anything about it. He’d gone out to the shop on the corner and gotten himself some whisky, since he no longer had his assorted nursemaids confiscating every drop of alcohol. He’d been nursing a rather poorly-blended but mercifully cheap bottle of scotch since mid-morning now, and was considering pouring himself another glass when a knock happened at the door.

He ignored it. If it was housekeeping, they’d hopefully get the hint. If it was Fay again... well, she’d picked the lock once. 

“Billy? It’s Rick...”

Billy sighed. Rick. Rick with his painful naivete and misplaced patriotism and hope. Rick with his crumbling look of utter devastation when his illusions were shattered.

“I’m coming in.” There was the sound of the key in the lock, and the door swinging open. “You okay?” came a tentative call.

“O’er here,” Billy mumbled, hitting the mute button on the remote to kill the sound of some godawful infomercial. He pulled himself into a sitting position with what was probably the greatest amount of energy he’d expended all day.

Rick cut quite a contrasting figure. He had clearly come from the office, as he was still dressed in a sharp suit, his hair nearly gelled and combed, a briefcase in his hand. He offered a tentative smile. “Brought you something.”

“If it’s more takeout, I’ll pass, mate. Mini-fridge is full of it already,” Billy remarked, swinging his legs off the cushions so Rick would have somewhere to sit. He was too tired to keep up the hostility at this point. Seeing the crushed look on Rick’s face was too painful, too exhausting. He just didn’t have anything left.

Rick sat down and undid the latches on the briefcase, clearing some of the empty cans and discarded paper plates and napkins from the coffee table to make enough room to set it down. His hand hesitated at the bottle of scotch, still in its brown paper bag, before carefully picking it up and placing it on the floor.

He then pulled out an unmarked manilla file and handed it over.

Billy’s apathy was significant. But his curiosity wasn’t entirely overcome by it. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this, then?”

Rick looked at him meaningfully. “The Morovia file.”

Billy frowned. Part of him wanted to open the file, to leaf through it... but that part quickly surrendered. “This shouldn’t leave headquarters, lad.”

“I smuggled it out for you.”

Billy’s frown deepened. “Why?”

Rick licked his lips, nervous. Whatever he’d really come here to say hadn’t been about the file. “Because. The team is moving on,” he finally explained, clearly distressed by the notion. “Higgins–” he paused, catching himself, “–they’re talking about replacing you. Michael is holding it off for now, but...”

They. Not just Higgins. _The Team._ Rick’s struggle with words was telling and didn’t go amiss. Michael and Casey were finally coming to terms with the fact of the matter: that Billy wasn’t a part of the team anymore. That he had to be let go. That they _needed_ to let go. For the good of the ODS. For the good of the team.

For the good of everyone but Billy, really.

Billy sucked in a breath and ground his teeth together for a moment. That little part of him that had wanted to open the file now balked at the notion of replacement, but once again was crushed into submission. “Good,” he said, overcoming the word like a hurdle. “That’s smart. You could use the backup.”

Rick shook his head, eyes wide and mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re our backup,” he insisted. “You always have been. We trust you. _I_ trust you! I always have, probably more than anyone else...”

Billy snorted. “Best to learn from one’s mistakes, lad,” he remarked, reaching for the glass of whisky and draining what little amber liquor remained in it. 

Rick’s expression darkened a touch. “I don’t care about what you said or did. I don’t. Whatever happened... it happened, and that’s on the bastards in Morovia, not you.”

Billy chuckled dryly, reaching for the bottle of scotch beneath the table, pouring himself another glass. The buzz from earlier had well worn off, and this wasn’t a conversation he intended to have to suffer wholly sober. 

Rick persisted. “We can still beat them. We can... we can make it right. We can get _justice,_ ” he said, emphasizing the last word as if it meant something. As if it weren’t just another bit of rubbish propaganda. “You and me and Casey and Michael... this doesn’t have to be how it ends. We can take it all back on to our terms.”

And the way he said it, Billy wanted to agree. Wanted to believe him. Wanted it all to be true, to stand up and be a brother in arms, once more unto the breach –

But those were the words of an agency-trained charmer. He couldn’t help but smile, a bit wistfully. “When did you learn to be so bloody convincing?”

Rick didn’t miss a beat. “I had a good teacher.”

Billy shook his head, looking back down at the glass in his hand, swirling the liquor around and watching as it clung to the walls of the glass, holding on for a brief moment before collapsing back to the bottom. “I can’t, lad.”

Rick looked at him earnestly. “They don’t get to win, Billy.”

A long moment, then Billy sighed. He met Rick’s gaze unflinchingly. When he spoke, it was no longer with malice, or anger, or bitterness. There was only the cold and naked truth. “I’m sorry Rick. They already have.”

Several seconds ticked past. Billy saw Rick’s eyes flicker back and forth as he searched for something in Billy’s expression – some sign of a man long gone and lost. Eventually realization must have sunk in as his gaze broke away and the set of his shoulder dropped ever so slightly. “Okay,” he murmured, leaning forward and snapping the briefcase buckles shut. He stood, took two steps, then halted. “We’re flying out on the red-eye tonight. If you change your mind...” He bit his lip, unable to finish, then quietly made his way for the door.

Billy looked down at the glass in his hand, and suddenly the smoky liquor tasted of nothing but ashes in his mouth. He moved to put it back down on the table, only to find a manilla folder in the way.

Rick had left the file. Billy sighed. It was probably just a copy – an unsanctioned one at that – but it was bloody careless of the lad.

Or maybe not careless at all.

He paused, then took hold of the file, shifting it aside so he could put down the glass. That tiny, incorrigible voice in the back of his head was shrieking at him to open it, to read it, to find out what fresh hell his team was diving headlong into–

– but it wasn’t his business. And it wasn’t his team anymore.

With a ragged breath, Billy put the file down and let go.


	10. IX. Revelation

IX.  
Revelation  


_  
Billy no longer lifted his head when they entered._

_There wasn’t any point. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t fight them. He could barely even move even if he tried. He was weak and hungry and tired and in pain, though all his injuries and breaks were impossible to distinguish from all the other pains that wracked his shattered body. Like a hundred individual noises that merged into a wall of solid sound._

_He didn’t lift his head when they entered. He didn’t struggle when they grabbed him and hauled him from under his arms, dragging him so his knees and feet scraped against the floor. He whimpered when they wrenched his dislocated shoulder, cringed, but made no sign of resistance._

_He knew what came next._

_And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it._

_-o-_

_Pain._

_The source didn’t matter. Whether it was the thick-necked Lieutenant or the Commander or any other faceless uniformed tormentor. The method didn’t matter. Beatings. Lashings. Shock. Drowning. Burning. Breaking. It all became the same. In the end, Billy was always dumped back into his dim and stinking little cell to curl up, throat raw from screaming, alone with his pain._

_He didn’t have the energy to move from where he lay, apart from the slight shifting required to remove his weight from his gruesomely displaced shoulder. Didn’t have the motivation to redistribute the tattered remains of what had once been a suit in a way to preserve his dignity. Didn’t have the strength to do anything other than lie and wait._

_Once, he’d waited for rescue. Waited and hoped and promised himself with quips and reassurances that his team would come for him. That he’d escape, and he’d go home and live the rest of his life with this as nothing more than a bad memory._

_Once, he’d waited and hoped._

_But then hope had dwindled and flickered and wasted away into nothing. His team never came. There was no rescue. In all likelihood, he’d been written off by the agency as dead and eaten by wolves. And even if he were to escape by some miracle, his body was too broken for him to be of any use. His old life was gone. Sometimes he mourned it. But that was the truth of it. Hope had been a cruel illusion that he had clung to, and he’d probably caused more torment to himself by doing so than his captors had ever inflicted._

_Once he’d waited and hoped._

_Now, he just waited. Because sooner or later his body would give out – starvation or exhaustion or infection or any other host of things that had been slowly wearing him down would finally prove victorious over his fragile life. Dying was the only available escape, the only realistic end to the story. Eventually he’d shuffle off this mortal coil and his body would be dumped unceremoniously in an unmarked grave and that’d be the end of it. The only way it would all finally stop._

_And the one consolation he had was that when he died, he’d take his secrets to the grave with him._

_Because he’d lost his health, his body, most of his sanity, his friends and his dignity and his hope..._

_… but the one thing he had, the one thing they hadn’t been able to take from him, which he’d clung to even after he’d let go of everything else, was his integrity as a spy._

_Billy had his secrets._

_And nothing else._

_(The rest was silence.)  
_  
-o-

Michael checked his watch. He tried to be discreet, but it didn’t matter. Casey noticed anyway.

“He’s late,” Casey observed, tapping his foot absently. They were at the airport, waiting at the gate. They had a flight to Poland before they got into Prensk with an aid organization under the pretense of being relief workers. It was a hasty cover, but it would hold, provided they made their flight.

Michael pursed his lips and looked back up at the crowd of people. “He’ll be here.”

Casey shrugged coolly. “You need to have a talk with him.”

Michael turned, glaring at him. “About his timeliness?”

“About Billy,” Casey returned bluntly. “He’s not letting go the way he needs to.”

Eyes narrowed, Michael kept his temper as even as he could. It was late and he was tired; this mission was high stress and last minute, neither of which was helping Michael’s mood. “You mean because he actually still cares?”

“Caring is irrelevant,” Casey told him. “He needs to focus. He can’t have distractions right now.”

“Billy’s our teammate--”

Casey held up a finger. “ _Was_ our teammate--”

Michael’s frown deepened. “He’s still our friend.”

“He’s a liability,” Casey said. “And we all know Morovia is a country we can’t afford liabilities in.”

Michael worked his jaw. “We can’t all be heartless bastards, Malick,” he said. “That’s your job.”

The insult didn’t seem to bother Casey. “I’m just reminding you that we have to have priorities.”

“We do,” Michael said. “We just don’t all agree that cutting Billy out entirely is the best solution.”

“It’s the only solution,” Casey said.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Michael said.

“And you think having a wayward operative is a good thing?” Casey asked pointedly.

“He’s not wayward,” Michael said, eyes on the crowd again. He nodded forward smugly. “See, there he is.”

He said it with confidence, but the fact was, he felt mostly relieved. Rick was never late, especially when it came to missions this important. He wasn’t sure what Martinez might try to do, but he actually agreed with Casey: he wanted Rick focused on this mission. Michael had already lost Billy to Morovia. He didn’t intend to lose another operative.

Not that Casey had to know that.

Not that he could actually hide it.

Fortunately, Rick was approaching at a fast pace, so Michael didn’t have to dwell on it any longer. Instead, he gave the kid a once over. “You’re late,” he said.

Rick straightened his jacket, setting his carryon down as he took the chair next to Michael. “Yeah, sorry,” he said quickly.

Casey snorted.

Michael ignored him, focusing on Rick instead. “Everything okay?”

Rick looked back at him, and their eyes met. “No,” he said, plain and honest. 

Michael’s stomach fluttered; he wasn’t sure what to do with that answer. Hell, he was barely sure what to do at all.

But Rick shrugged, settling back down and looking out over the airport. “But I’m ready to go.”

Michael took a breath and nodded. “Good,” he said, taking another breath and pushing back his doubts. Really, there was nothing else to say. Nothing else that he could let matter at this point. “This whole thing will be over before we know it.”

It was a lie, of course, because Michael was a proficient and unrepentant liar. But really, no matter how well this mission went, things would probably never be over.

-o-

When Billy woke, he wasn’t sure what time it was. Looking about blearily, he noted that the TV was on low, an infomercial still showing on the screen.

Frowning, he pushed himself upward and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he blanched, fighting to keep it under control even as his head started to pound. He laid very still for a second. If he couldn’t remember the time of day or night, he could still remember the whisky.

The whisky. It had been cheap but it had gotten the job done. After his visit from Rick, he’d decided that more than a nice buzz was in order. He’d opted for drinking his way into oblivion.

Opening his eyes, he looked around the flat wearily. At least that was one thing he’d succeeded at.

Slowly, with calculated effort, he levered himself upward and sat back gingerly. The pounding in his head intensified, but really, it was nothing but a tickle. If he could survive a Morovian torture chamber, then he could survive a bloody hangover. All to his utmost chagrin, of course.

There was no rest for the weary. Or the drunk or the broken.

But this much wasn’t his fault. He’d already endured unsaid amount of torture. He was under no obligation to endure the heartfelt pleas of the new guy. As if Billy needed Martinez to remind him again and again what he’d given up, what he’d never get back. The kid would be better off without him anyway. And Billy would be better off without them, in the long run. There was no need for pretense. No need for anything.

Though, really, Billy would be better off dead. Since that was apparently not a ready option, he would settle for drunk.

His stomach roiled and he half considered bolting for the bathroom. But he was too lazy to vomit. Some food might help to settle it but the mini-fridge was a good five feet away and Billy was uncertain that his legs would support him that far.

And really, all such measures would do was keep him sober.

His mates were off and about in Morovia. Moving on. Sobriety was entirely overrated.

Grunting, he wondered if there was still enough whisky for breakfast. He vaguely remembered tipping the bottle back and spilling some down his shirt front but surely he hadn’t managed to drink the _entire_ thing.

Fumbling, he lurched forward, picking up the glass and squinting at it. It was empty, but he’d given up the glass soon after Rick had left.

He shuffled things around, knocking a tub of leftover rice on the ground. He scattered wadded up napkins and a pile of books fell on the floor. The change in position agitated his stomach, and he had to brace himself heavily to stave off the nausea.

Sitting there, he breathed with force, ignoring the way his arms shook. He felt weak and lightheaded. Shock or exhaustion or just hunger; it didn’t matter. Nothing would matter with a bit more to drink.

Hands trembling, he saw the bottle on the floor and picked it up clumsily, grinning. “There you are, mate,” he crooned at it, almost losing his balance as he bent. His hand slipped on the table, sending the file to the floor in front of him, papers spilling out.

He stared at it for a moment, one hand still braced on the table, the other wrapped around the bottle. The clean, white pages. State secrets, smuggled out and spilled in front of Billy. That seemed appropriate suddenly, far too appropriate.

His life was lonely and miserable but still not without irony.

At least, these spilled secrets were ones he could still put back.

“If only it were actually this simple,” he mused with a bitter huff, as he took another drink and tossed the papers one by one back on the table.

-o-

On the ground, there was no time to get settled, which was really for the best as far as Michael was concerned. They checked into the motel, did enough to establish their cover, and while Rick and Casey set up the room with the appropriate communication and surveillance equipment, Michael stole out for one last meeting with Illyich.

The shop was no busier than before, and the street was still mostly deserted. One of the windows in front was boarded over, but the open sign was still turned forward.

The bells tinkled when Michael entered, but Illyich wasn’t there when he came in. Curious, Michael slowed his pace, sweeping the store’s front room visually. Cautiously, he moved closer to the counter. When no one came to greet him, he rang the small bell.

There was a rustling, and Michael tried not to show how tense he was when Illyich finally came out.

He’d gotten to know Illyich better than he cared to over the last year, so it was pretty easy to see that the other man was not faring so well. He looked older than the last time they’d met -- hair grayer and posture just starting to slouch. When he saw Michael, there was immediate recognition, but it took him a long moment to smile. Even then, it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

“Old friend,” Illyich said. “I did not know if I would see you again so soon.”

Michael gave him a look. There was something different in this, something just slightly _off._ The words were right, but the tone wasn’t what he’d come to expect from Illyich. Slimy, overly exuberant and conniving, yes. But reserved and downcast, not so much.

“From our last visit, I assumed things were pretty pressing,” Michael said. “Speaking which, that site is still good as far as you know?”

Illyich nodded, but his gaze didn’t quite meet Michael’s. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Nothing has changed.” He paused, looking up hesitantly. “You are to go, then?”

Michael nodded. “We’re considering a run,” he said. “Seems like you’re ready for this insurrection to be over.”

Illyich sighed. “I told you. War is no good for old men,” he said. “And I am feeling very old these days. Very, very old.”

Michael attempted to smile. “Well, hopefully not much longer then,” he said. “If you have nothing new for us...”

Illyich shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Nothing new. But the dangers -- they are serious, yes?”

“Thanks for the concern,” Michael said, a little bemused. “But we know what we’re doing.”

Illyich’s brows knit together. “You are sure?” he asked. 

“Of course,” Michael said.

“What of your friend?” Illyich asked. “The tall one. From Scotland.”

Michael swallowed hard, but there was nothing but actual concern in Illyich’s eyes. Uncertainty, wariness, and actual concern. “He’s okay,” Michael said finally, offering the partial truth for what it was worth. He cocked his head. “What’s with the sudden concern?”

Because it was sudden, just like the shift in Illyich’s behavior. Just like the emptiness of the shop, the ready acquiescence. 

Illyich offered him a feeble smile. “Curious,” he said. “I like to think that the good guys win sometimes, yes?”

Sometimes, but not always.

This time, though. They had to win this time. They could never make what happened to Billy better, but maybe they could make it so it wasn’t in vain.

“We’ve got this one under control,” Michael said. He nodded around the store. “Hopefully business will be back and booming in no time.”

Illyich looked around his shop. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. “That is what I’ve been trying to do. That’s what I thought matters.”

Michael sighed, reaching into his wallet. “So tell me,” he said. “What fine product do you think I need to buy today?”

Illyich lifted his hand and waved it in the air. “Take what you want,” he said. “This time, it’s -- how do you say? -- on the house.”

Michael gave him a look. Things were getting worse in Morovia if Illyich had lost his competitive edge. It was clear that Illyich wanted this to be over. In truth, he wasn’t the only one.

Still, Michael pulled a few bills out of his wallet and laid them down. “Things will be better soon,” he promised. “You’ll see.”

Illyich smiled at him. “I hope so, my friend,” he said, looking sadly at the money. “I hope so.”

-o-

Billy didn’t mean to look.

He was trying to put the papers back on the table without spilling the rest of his whisky. It was all making him rather uncoordinated, especially since he had no desire to sit any further upright if he had his preference. It would have been easier to leave the file on the floor, but when Rick finally got his senses back, the lad would want them back and spare himself an internal review and possibly a reprimand.

But as it was, Billy was making a bigger mess than before, and as the papers flittered off the other edge, he realized it would less effort to just sit up than it would to keep at it in this haphazard approach.

With a groan, he straightened, bending over much to his stomach’s many protests, retrieving the bulk of the papers in his stiff hands. He’d been neglecting his exercises, and it showed, and he winced as he did his best to straighten the papers into something resembling a pile.

The order was all off, though, and the page on top was an intelligence profile of an asset. The words were too small to read in the dimness and given Billy’s unfortunate state of quasi-drunkenness, but the photo was unmistakable.

A grinning, fiendish face, with bright eyes and bushy gray hair. 

Illyich.

Billy’s breath caught in his throat and his stomach twisted with fresh intensity.  
 _  
A cobblestone street with a late summer breeze. The hairs on the back of his neck--  
_  
Prickled. His skin crawled and he tried to breathe, tried to breathe, tried to--  
 _  
The smell of hand-rolled cigarettes and the taste of a cool drink while the people walked on by. It all had a certain amount of--  
_  
Character. These were details he knew, details he’d wanted to forget, details he’d last spoken in an interrogation chamber with a cattle prod jabbed into his side, the voltage so high his teeth chattered and his vision turned white as he told them everything he knew, everything--  
 _  
There was an old bridge and a gentle river. “Rest easy, mate. I’m a--  
_  
Professional. This had been Billy’s job, this had been the mission. The last mission, the only mission, the--  
 _  
Illyich was nervous man. “The intel was good?” On his way out, he met Billy’s--  
_  
Gaze. Eyes locked, knowing. Illyich had known, even when Billy hadn’t. Illyich had _known--_

 _Billy wasn’t alone in the alley. He took a left turn. Then a right, zigzagging within the labyrinth of old and narrow streets in hopes of shaking off his tail. Left, right –  
_  
But there was nowhere to go. Billy was face to face with his worst enemy, the thing that had taken everything from him. His job, his mates, his sense of self. Everything. And Billy wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. He wanted to drink all the alcohol and take all the pills. He’d tell them everything they wanted. Anything, at all, just to avoid this. But there was nowhere to go. No escape--  
 _  
– dead end.  
_  
Tears burned Billy’s eyes, his throat so tight it hurt. Dead end. Dead end, dead end--

This time, there was no place left to go. No defense left to mount. Just one last dead end that Billy was left to face alone.

-o-

Michael had never been overly fond of Morovia. He’d lost most of his sympathy for the country when one of his own was abducted from the cobblestone streets and tortured to the brink of death. But, on this journey, Michael was struck that time had not been kind to anyone in the country.

The population seemed depressed, and fewer people braved the streets in their business garb. There were noticeably more beggars, and a growing number of evident dissidents, some more articulate, some more inclined to pull a gun and start firing if provoked. Illyich’s behavior wasn’t particularly strange given this climate. General Vereychek apparently didn’t just approve the torture of capture foreign agents and suspected enemies of the state; he seemed inclined to gain control of his country by destroying the morale of his own people.

To Michael’s mind, it was just more reason for the son of a bitch to go down.

In this, he was thorough. The entire team was armed with cameras and notebooks. As aid volunteers, they were mostly left alone on the streets, even by the armed soldiers on patrol throughout the city. They took pictures wherever they could, documenting the growing poverty, the increased destruction, and the disruption of normal life. 

They had a growing pile of incidental intelligence before they even launched their assault. None of it was exactly actionable, but the UN liked to humanize conflict before they acted. These images might not sway a government to act, but they would have some impact on the worldwide understanding of Vereychek’s potential rule and the inevitable humanitarian disaster that would ensue.

Of course, for Michael, there was only one reason why bringing stability to Morovia mattered. And that was Billy, alone in his motel room back in the States. They couldn’t save Billy anymore, but maybe they could make his loss matter.

Michael wasn’t so blind to know this wasn’t just for Billy, though. It was for him. Their failure to save Billy would cripple them, and undo everything Michael had worked so hard to build. Higgins wouldn’t have to disband the ODS if they failed this mission; they’d fall apart all on their own.

So the stakes were high. For Morovia, for the ODS, for Michael.

This was why Michael was in rare form. His efficiency impressed even Casey and his forethought had Rick scrambling to keep up. By the time they were ready to head out to the location Illyich had indicated, it was the most prepared Michael had ever been.

He’d scouted the area, checking the access roads. He’d documented the nearby activity and charted potential emergency extraction points. He had everything in order, and he’d briefed Rick and Casey twice a day with the same, simple plan.

And he had to just hope like hell it was enough.

As it was, it was too late now. They were in the car, parked at the designated warehouse two miles out. It was the best shelter they would have before reaching the site, and going by foot would provide them a better chance at stealth in case they needed it.

Parked, Rick and Casey set to work. Rick was gearing up, checking his camera and his folders as he repacked his bag. Casey had gone around to the back, pulling out the spare tire and rolling it around. “This seems like a waste of time,” he muttered.

“They’re not exactly laid back in Morovia,” Michael reminded him. “We need our cover to be impeccable. No lapses.”

With that, he took his pocket knife, slashing the rear tire. The car listed, the air hissing explosively.

Casey came over, now with the jack. He made a face. “And you think they’re going to demand evidence of a blown out tire?”

“I think they’re going to be curious that we requested a visit to an outlying township and then didn’t show up all day long,” Michael said. “Car trouble is a viable excuse.”

Casey grunted, setting about to changing the tire. “Except that we can change a tire in two minutes,” he muttered.

Michael watched his progress, shrugging. “Aid workers come in all types,” he said. “We’re entirely too focused on serving the good people of Morovia in their struggle with democracy to worry about simple life skills.”

Casey scowled but didn’t argue. Rick came around, shouldering his pack now. “I think we’re good to go.”

“Batteries all charged?” Michael asked.

“On all the cameras,” Rick confirmed. “And I have a few back up ones, just in case.”

Michael nodded his approval. “Good,” he said. “We’ll want to take whatever we can grab and take pictures of what we can. This isn’t a time to be discerning. Assume everything is important. We’ll sort out the irrelevant details later when we make a formal file to pass along to the UN and other international concern organizations.”

With a nod of his own, Rick wet his lips. “You sure we’ll be cleared for the walk over?”

“As clear as we’re going to be,” Michael confirmed. He glanced at Casey, who was tightening the bolts on the spare tire. “You ready?”

Casey looked up at him, hands moving efficiently. “This is a total waste of my skills,” he said.

“Yeah, well, cheer up,” Michael cajoled. “We’re about to do real spywork here, just like you want.”

Casey finished, pushing up and offering Michael a dark smile. “About damn time,” he said. He reached down and snagged his own pack. “So what are we waiting for?”

“Nothing,” Michael said, because none of the rest mattered now. Not the people on the streets, not their need for vindication. Not even Billy, depressed and broken, in a motel room back home.

Just the mission.

For better or worse, there was only the mission.

-o-

Billy read.

It wasn’t necessarily a choice; it was more like a compulsion. A sadistic form of self-torture. One word after another, making sentences, filling pages. Details that made up a story. A story that had cost Billy more than he had known he could lose.

The worst story--

It started in Morovia. The country was small and unstable, broken off from the former Soviet Union. Its position and relative instability had made it a safe haven for a variety of questionable activities. The CIA had been establishing a network there for years, keeping track of a wide range of fanatical groups in an effort to control one of the region’s major supply routes.  
 _  
\--they were just about ready to go home. Rick had drawn the short straw, and Billy was the one who got to pay off the asset. He was free of dirty socks and got to indulge in one last drink, one last breath of fresh air. The last one. Last--  
_  
The country had been ruled by Boregrev, a dictator using a loose guise of democracy by calling himself a president and being elected by rigged ballots. He’d stayed in power for years, and much of his control had come from his paramilitary attack dogs, the Narodny Dzida.  
 _  
\--they weren’t officially part of the military, but they were still an established network. People feared them and whispered about their methods. When people disappeared, the Narodny Dzida was often to blame. Not just folklore. But cold, hard cells and blood-stained interrogation rooms and--  
_  
When Boregrev died, the entire country lapsed into disarray. The suddenness of the death left no clear transition plan in place. While some groups had struggled to push democracy forward, other groups had not been so inclined to wait. They saw the weakness and pounced.  
 _  
\--and they did whatever it took. Beatings and flogging and drowning and burning. Their methods were precise, not always in execution, but in the theory. Water on stone, wearing away until there was nothing left, nothing--  
_  
The coup put General Vereychek in power, and much of his control was directly attributed to the Narodny Dzida. Though the shift in power was tentative, Vereychek was maneuvering the Narodny Dzida into solidifying control. Soon, there would be no turning back for Morovia.  
 _  
\--some things that broke couldn’t be fixed. Buildings could be built, but countries were harder to restore. Bones could mend, but the soul--  
_  
Any attempt to depose Vereychek would be an unsanctioned act of war. An assassination was too dangerous. The CIA was about intelligence, and intelligence could make a mission.  
 _  
\--intelligence could break a mission. It could break a man. It wasn’t supposed to break a spy--  
_  
They needed this mission. They only had one asset left in the region. The rest had been dismantled.  
 _  
They didn’t say why. They talked about setbacks and compromises, but they didn’t say why. They didn’t talk about abductions in alleyways. They didn’t talk about three months of torture. They didn’t talk about state secrets being wrenched from a broken man, one piece of information at a time.  
_  
One piece of information at a time. It made an impressive file. A frightening file.   
_  
It wasn’t so impressive when it was lived.  
_  
They couldn’t fail in Morovia. If they did, all would be lost.  
 _  
Billy knew about that. He knew what it was to lose everything. He knew what it was to fail.  
_  
His team was going to fix it. His team was risking everything to clean up Billy’s mess. They couldn’t fix Billy, but they were going to fix what he’d broken in his weakness.

It was his fault.  
 _  
It was his fault.  
_  
And suddenly, he wasn’t in his flat anymore. He wasn’t on his couch, half drunk in the States. He was _there--_

_In the cell, stinking and starving and wasting away to nothing. He was nothing. A broken, pathetic man who had betrayed everything he’d ever believed in, everything that mattered. They had abused him and hurt him and taken his dignity, but it was Billy who had given the last bits of himself over._

_It was Billy who had given in._

_He’d let them win._

_Breaking was nothing more than unconditional surrender. Talking was nothing more than unmitigated defeat.  
_  
Breaking. Surrender. Defeat.

Billy stared at the pages until the words ran together, until he couldn’t even see. He stared until his hands trembled and his throat constricted. He stared until the sobs came, tearing out of him, and each tear that was wrenched from him hurt more than the last.

This wasn’t a file documenting a mission.

This was a file documenting Billy’s failure and its immeasurable cost.  
 _  
And nothing else._

 _(The rest was silence.)  
_  
-o-

Their advance went well. In fact, it went off without a hitch. They cleared the remaining distance with no sign of danger, and when they reached the fenced exterior, Michael was almost unnerved by how easy it was.

But this was why he had planned. He had set up this mission flawlessly. He just hadn’t expected it to go, well, flawlessly.

There wasn’t much he could do about it, though. It wasn’t like he could abort the mission because it was going too well. That was failed logic, even for the ODS.

Still, as they seamlessly infiltrated the fence, Michael’s senses were on alert, keen to every passing element. He listened to the sound of rodents scurrying away, the sound of long forgotten trash blowing across the cracked cement in the wind. There was a whistling noise through the darkened windows. It was unsettling, but not to be unexpected. It all fit with Illyich’s description of the place: an abandoned arms facility.

The doors were locked, but Rick made short work of them. Billy would have been proud...

Michael didn’t let himself think about that. He couldn’t. He had to think about the mission. 

On the inside, he nodded to Casey, who hung back to take the rear. Rick stayed in the center, gun drawn, while Michael edged around to take point. From here, they were mostly flying blind. The satellite shots had given them a good sense of the exterior, but the interior layout was unknown to them. Michael had to trust his instincts as he led them through the hallways, snaking his way along until they got to a large open area.

It was darkened, with crates and boxes askew. There were two large garage doors on the far end, which indicated this was a shipping and receiving area.

Casey fanned out instinctively, scanning the perimeter while Michael worked his way forward. Rick moved center, and within a few short minutes, they all came to the same conclusion. The place was clear.

Vacant though it seemed, Michael found himself struggling to let his guard down, keeping his gun drawn even as Rick holstered his, trading it for his camera as he approached one of the nearest containers. He moved the lid, looking inside.

“Empty,” he said, shifting through the packing material inside. 

Nearby, Casey had picked up a clipboard, flipping through the attached pages. “But not completely cleared out,” he said. “They left one of the manifests.”

Rick moved closer, unshouldering his pack as he glanced it over. His eyes went wide. “That’s some heavy duty weaponry,” he said.

Casey snorted, flipping another page. “Nothing like what we picked up with our sting operation during our first mission here,” he said.

Michael frowned, crossing the distance but keeping his gun out. He glanced over the list, too, making a face. “We’ll definitely want to take that,” he said. “That kind of list goes beyond simple military protection.”

Rick had veered off, going through another crate. “These aren’t just packing crates for weapons,” he said. He nodded down to a small, metal box. “This looks like it was for medical supplies or something.”

Michael walked over, his stomach going cold. “Or chemical agents,” he said.

Casey joined him. “Biological warfare,” he said.

Rick gaped. “There’s at least several hundred cases of this stuff,” he said.

Michael nodded. “Take the pictures,” he said. “Get a good look at the scope. And keep looking. Let’s see what else they’ve got in the works.”

From there, they worked in silence. Each discovery was documented. From the crates, they could make out the number of weapons and with the various manifests they found, they were building a good picture of exactly what capabilities the Narodny Dzida had. 

Well, not a good picture. But a complete picture. Michael had known this group was dangerous, but none of their intelligence had suggested that they were operating at this level, that they had this much firepower. They had had a comfortable position with Boregrev’s backing, but these shipments weren’t old. They had known the arms trade went through Morovia, but this was starting to look less like a stopping point and more like a point of origin.

In the back of the room, Michael got to the office area. Carefully, he opened the door, keeping a mindful eye on his teammates, who were still scouring the loading bay. 

The office was in disarray. There was still a desk and a chair, but the top drawer was open, the keys still inside. They’d left in a hurry, just like Illyich had said. The top drawer was cleaned out, as were the ones below it. But on his way out, Michael noted the closet. Curious, he opened it, surprised to find more filing drawers.

They were full.

The top few were more shipping manifests, some dating back several years. There was a drawer filled with files from other transactions -- food shipments and vehicle repairs, a few requisitions for uniforms and recruiting papers. They’d want to take these with them, for sure.

He was about to go get Rick and Casey, when he opened the last drawer.

His Russian was rusty, but the rough translation wasn’t too hard.  
 _  
Intelligence Files -- Duplicates  
_  
Frowning, Michael pulled open the first file. It was a man he didn’t recognize, middle-aged and Scandinavian. The initial photo seemed to be a stock passport photo, but the ones behind showed the man handcuffed. The subsequent pictures showed the man in various stages of undress, evidence of abuse on his body. The accompanying report was a photocopy of a hand-scrawled paper, but Michael made out the gist.

Date of capture. Interrogation tactics. Intelligence gained. Date of death. Place of burial.

Michael felt his breath catch. 

These were the files of the people they’d interrogated. 

Whatever this place had been, it had served as a centralized location for some of the group’s more serious work. The original copies of the intelligence files were undoubtedly stored closer to the place where they’d found Billy -- or were destroyed entirely. But if they’d left in a hurry, they would have been more concerned about getting the ammunition and other weapons. And if they thought they might be back, scorching the place wouldn’t be a good idea. Especially if they thought their power was growing.

The date for the blond man was four years old, so Michael skipped back. He worked his way through the years, until he found ones from a year ago. There was the woman they’d rescued, and the Russian man. Michael kept flipping until he found what he was looking for.  
 _  
William Collins, CIA. Former MI6.  
_  
The first photo of Billy was taken on the streets of Prensk. He was healthy and whole, complexion ruddy and his suit still nicely trim. In the photo, he was sitting in a chair, nursing a drink, the briefcase by his side and Illyich at his back.

The next photo showed Billy tied to a metal chair. His suit was still in one piece, but he was unconscious, a hand fisted in his hair as his head was held up.

After that, the photos got worse. The bruises started showing up, cuts and welts and burns. His clothing started to get tattered and bloodstained, until it was mostly gone altogether.

Through his burning eyes, the notes were even hard to translate, but Michael made out the highlights.  
 _  
Captive continues to show defiance, will not confirm or deny anything. Tactics used: beating, whipping, electrocution. Recommend more focused efforts.  
_  
The photos got more graphic still. Billy’s destroyed back, his hollowed out face. His eyes started to look wild, his figure gaunt. His hair was overgrown, his stubble lengthening into an unkempt beard.  
 _  
Transfer complete. Sleep deprivation has had a pronounced effect. Still will not confirm or deny. Recommend psychological pressure.  
_  
Billy started to look unfamiliar, almost alien. His eyes almost bugged and his fingers were curled. The clothing didn’t cover much now, his body was smeared with blood and filth, and the defiance was fading from his expression.  
 _  
Isolation recommended. At least one week without any light or human contact. Meals once a day.  
_  
After that, the photos were almost gruesome. Billy’s skin was papery and white, his jaw clearly broken and his hair in clumps. He couldn’t sit upright anymore, and he looked exhausted. Broken.  
 _  
Captive refuses to confirm or deny anything. Execution recommended.  
_  
Michael had to look away, forcing air out through his mouth. His fingers were clenching the paper so tight that he was almost crumpling it. He’d known what they did to Billy. He’d seen what Billy had looked like when they found him, he’d been there through the catatonia, the vacancy, the near-suicide and the depression. Billy had told them he’d broken--

But it hadn’t told them _this._

To know it was one thing, to see it...to see how Billy had been taken apart, bit by bit. To see how he had been stripped of his dignity and his humanity. How he’d been abused and used and still hadn’t given in.

He hadn’t given in. These notes were over two months into Billy’s captivity. He’d lasted two months. Two months of torture, waiting for a rescue that didn’t come.

The next photo showed Billy, almost devoid of life. He looked dead, his eyes open but almost unseeing. And the notes were longer now.  
 _  
Captive has confirmed his identity as William Collins, CIA operative. He has explained his mission in Morovia and delineated the assets in the country. Information has been passed along to the active divisions for containment. He is now very cooperative. Torture tactics are likely unnecessary but do produce immediate results.  
_  
Michael was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. The last note was clearest of all:  
 _  
Captive has been exhausted as a source of information. Interrogation was time consuming but ultimately successful. Dispose of as convenient.  
_  
And that was that. As if that was the end of the story. They’d taken everything from Billy and left him to die when he was no longer useful. It was beyond cruel. There were no words for it, only Michael had done the same thing.

He hadn’t tortured Billy, but when Billy made it clear he wouldn’t be a part of the team anymore, they’d left him all the same. He didn’t want Billy to die, but he had made no more efforts to help him.

And Billy needed help. Billy _deserved_ help. Spies were trained, but they were only human. In an interrogation chamber, Billy wasn’t a spy. He was just a person. He was just Michael’s friend. 

He was so engrossed that he didn’t hear Rick until he came up behind him. “You find something?”

Michael startled, looking up. Casey came in right behind Rick. “What?” Casey asked. “You’re having a party and you didn’t invite me?”

Michael met his eyes. Met Rick’s eyes. “I found it,” he said.

Rick frowned. “More information about the group?”

Michael held out the file. “Billy’s file,” he said. “I--” He cut off, his throat choked. “You both need to read this.”

-o-

It was hard to say how long he sat there, staring at the pages. Time hadn’t mattered much to him since he’d been rescued, but he hadn’t zoned out quite this badly in a few weeks.

But he couldn’t help it. The terror was almost paralyzing. Every breath felt strained, his entire existence almost surreal. He’d always remembered, but he’d worked hard to leave those horrors in his nightmares, to separate himself from them. It had cost him all he was, but it had been the only way he could even function day to day.

He had no such luxury now. There it all was, in black and white.

The mission that started this.

The mission that ended this.

He was trembling, and his cheeks were wet even if he couldn’t remember crying. He didn’t want to remember. He wanted to forget. He would do anything to forget--

The alcohol, the sleeping pills. Anything, anything, _anything.  
_  
Billy’s panic spiked but he found himself immobile. He’d done everything he could to escape but there was no escape. There was no _escape.  
_  
Just the facts now. The file laid them out, cold and simple and true. Not just the first mission, but this one, too. His friends were going to clean up his mess, starting with an arms cache.

An arms cache.

Billy’s mind flashed, almost against his will. He used to be good at this, at making connections, putting pieces together. It came back to him without his consent, not that that should have surprised him. Even his own body, his own _mind_ betrayed him in the end.

An arms cache. The original mission had been an arms deal. Between the Russians and a group of Basque terrorists. They’d finished that mission, nabbed the goods but they’d never found the buyer. They’d wanted to get the intelligence back, to transfer the weaponry over. They’d planned to find the buyers later--

Fingers stiff, he glanced back through the report. They’d never found the buyers. They’d probably never even looked. They’d been too focused on finding Billy...

There was something to that. They should have found the buyers. Basque terrorists were not to be trifled with, but there had been no leads. Like they didn’t exist...

He frowned. That wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right. This file wasn’t right.

Because the mission -- had been too easy. The Russians had been sloppy and the arms had been almost comically antiquated. Too old for much use in the most current circles of terrorist warfare. A convenient score for America’s spooks.

Convenient.

Billy flipped to the last page again. Convenient like an abandoned arms cache. They looked good on paper and made for a documented intelligence gain, but the actionable result was negligible.

Almost too good to be true.

Nothing was too good to be true. Because they weren’t good and they weren’t true. And the best missions ended in disaster. In a cobblestone alleyway in Prensk--

Like a sacrifice fly ball, to borrow from the Americans. Sacrificing one thing to gain the other. A few outdated weapons for an actual operative--

Billy shuddered.

He was being paranoid. It had been an accident. It had been a slip up. Someone had neglected something, someone had cut the wrong corner. Maybe the bad guys had just gotten lucky. Maybe Billy had just been sloppy--

His heart started to race. In everything, he hadn’t considered that. How he’d been captured. He’d been so focused on rescue, so intent on not breaking, that he had figured he could sort out the operational failures later. 

But later had turned into much later which had turned into never. Which had turned into Billy, half drunk on his couch, staring at a mission report he wasn’t even supposed to have.

It was all _wrong._ And it had been wrong since the start. It had gone too well. It had been too easy. There was always a price to pay.

All of his senses were alive, his mind working faster now. 

What if they’d never found the buyers because there never were any buyers? What if the weapons were just a pittance to draw out some operatives and leave them ripe for the picking? 

But there was no evidence of that. There was nothing in the file to indicate that. There had never been any sign of a cover up. They’d checked the intel. They’d vetted it. They’d trusted the source--  
 _  
Illyich.  
_  
Billy froze, his breath catching.  
 _  
Illyich._

 _Old friend.  
_  
Illyich had provided the intel on the weapons. And Illyich had provided the intel on the ODS’ current mission. Michael had said he was the only asset. Billy had assumed the old man had just gotten lucky, but no one was lucky with the Narodny Dzida.

How was it that Illyich was the one who had given this information and he was the only asset still standing?  
 _  
Old friend.  
_  
Billy had sold him out. He could still remember it. He remembered yelling his name, describing his shop, explaining the information Illyich had sold to them and how much they’d paid the man. He’d said it all, right down to his favorite cafe on Prensk’s main street, and Illyich was _still there.  
_  
Luck, Billy told himself. Some people got lucky.

The Narodny Dzida wasn’t about luck, though. They didn’t leave loose ends. They used you until they were done, and then they left you to die.

If Illyich wasn’t dead...

Then he was still useful.

If the man had given them one operative...

Billy’s stomach turned violently, and he felt dangerously lightheaded.

Maybe he’d just given them three more.

-o-

They were on the clock for this mission -- they had to be back at a reasonable time or their covers would be compromised -- but none of them could move. They put the papers down on the desk, standing over them together, going page by page. They could just take it and go, but none of them had it in them.

They couldn’t look away. Not even if they wanted to.

Rick started the translation, reading off the simplistic notations in a tinny voice that seemed to echo in the abandoned room. He wavered over the details, choking a little when they described Billy’s deteriorating health. Next to him, Casey started to get stiffer, fingers clenching into fists as the report described the methodical attempts to find Billy’s weak spot.

When Rick finally read, “Captive probably still hopes for rescue. This is the biggest obstacle in obtaining his intelligence,” Casey was trembling so hard that Michael thought he might fall over. Rick broke off, taking a shuddering breath before continuing. “Recommendation: unrelenting, prolonged efforts until hope is futile.”

They kept reading, looking at the pictures, seeing the way Billy was worn down -- quite literally. They saw him transform from the optimistic, verbose man they’d called a friend to the emaciated, broken thing they’d rescued.

Then, Rick shook his head, turning away. Startled, Michael followed him. “Hey,” Michael said. “What’s it say?”

Rick turned, and his face was white. He shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “What they did to Billy -- to make him break--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Casey said tersely. He was still staring at the papers. “These sons of bitches need to pay.”

The sudden weight of the revelations suddenly became clear to Michael. Rick was about to lose control -- he looked ready to cry or throw up, maybe both. Casey’s indifference had hardened into rage -- the most vibrant, unadulterated feeling he’d seen from the other man in months, almost a year.

This changed everything.

And yet, it changed nothing.

Michael gathered himself and went back to the papers. He started collecting them. “Pack as many of the files as you can,” he said. “Take as many pictures as you can. I want this stuff to be documented.”

“You can’t possibly mean we’re just going to leave,” Casey said, almost seething now.

Michael glanced at him. “If you can find someone to kill here, I won’t stop you,” he said. “But if we want the people who did this to pay, then we’re going to have to go back and regroup and find out a plan of attack.”

Casey regarded him carefully. “Our orders--”

“Are to retrieve the intel,” he said. “And we are. What we do after that is entirely our own business.”

There was a smirk of satisfaction on Casey’s face. Rick blinked rapidly, though, still breathing raggedly. “And the file?”

Michael picked up the last of the photos before promptly dropping them in metal trash bin. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his lighter. Reaching down, he flicked it open, touching the flame to the top page. He watched as the fire took, and Casey and Rick drew near as the papers curled, the photos warping as the fire consumed.

“If Billy’s having trouble leaving this behind, we’ll have to keep helping him,” Michael said. “It took them three months to take him apart. If it takes us three lifetimes, we’ll stay there as he puts it back together. This won’t beat him.”

The fire leapt, and the papers turned black and then disintegrated.

“It won’t beat us,” he said, with a fresh certainty.

They stood there together, watching as Billy’s three months went up in flames. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a start. They couldn’t build a future until they burned away the past.

When the fire died down and there was nothing but ash, Michael looked up again. Rick still looked shaky, eyes wet. Casey was focused, expression unrelenting. This time, there was no false hope. No naive expectations. Not everything that broke could be fixed, but some things were worth the effort.

And, God help them all, Michael would make that effort, no matter what.

With that much done, they redoubled their efforts. Quickly, they finished packing, taking a few more photos before gearing up. Then, Michael led them out, moving down the hallways expertly until they reached their exit. Flanking the door across for Casey, he nodded, and they went out together, guns up.

Then, they stopped abruptly.

Because in the glaring light of day was a circle of two dozen armed men, all donning uniforms, with their guns aimed straight at Michael and his team.

-o-

It was a strange feeling, foreign and familiar. But once Billy’s mind started working, he found himself unable to stop it.

The intelligence looked good, which was, of course, entirely the problem.

Things that looked good in Morovia, rarely were.

It would be easy to write it off. After all, Billy hadn’t been an active member of the CIA in a year now. His skills were rusty, his finely tuned sense of paranoia indubitably dampened. There was a reason he hadn’t tried to get cleared for duty, not even in a nominal capacity. He wasn’t the same spy anymore. He wasn’t even the same man.

There was no way his judgment could be trusted. There was no reason he should be trusted with anything of importance. Old wounds were always more prone to reopening, and Billy had too many wounds to ever be trusted in the field again.

And yet, though he’d spent the last year in pieces, he’d spent so many more before that putting them together. He could take two and two and somehow come up with five when the situation called for it, and, more often than not, he was right.

Sitting there, alone on his couch, unshaven and rumpled and still craving alcoholic oblivion, he knew he was _right.  
_  
It was the same way people knew they were in love. He just _knew._ His instincts were still there, hidden and confused much of the time, but still there. Maybe spywork was a bit like riding a bike -- a skill one never really forgot.

Sometimes Billy wanted to forget, but the information was too glaring. The inconsistencies too real. 

His team -- his friends -- the ODS -- they were in danger.

For a few moments -- maybe much more than that -- he sat, clutching the papers with that horrifying realization. There was nothing more he could do, after all. Disgraced and disgruntled, Billy had no clout, no feasible means to prove his point. Moreover, what did he actually have to justify his doubts? Just the knowledge of his own duplicity and the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach.

It could be just another flashback. A conflation of horror and trauma brought up by the report that he was redirecting away from himself. It could be a sign of his ever-clear unfitness for normal society.

Or it could be he was right.

But how? And in what way? If Illyich was the one who had sold him out, why had he agreed to work with Michael and the others again? Why hadn’t he turned on them sooner? What had changed?

The political situation, of course. The CIA hadn’t had much presence in Morovia, and without a concrete mission, perhaps they were seen as benign. Once they wanted to do something actionable, perhaps that was the time Illyich and whoever he might be working for stepped up their game.

Maybe that was why Illyich’s information was sparse. A feast or famine, of sorts. Only the feasts were empty calories. Enough to appease the CIA’s interests while simultaneously tracking its operatives and gleaning fresh intelligence for the other side.

And Billy had walked right into it. Paid off his own captor. Probably financed his own damn torture.

But what now? Was the location a fake? Would Illyich tip someone off? Would the team make it out of there alive or would they simply be tagged as CIA for future reference?

There was no way to know. But Billy did know that the danger was real. If the report was to believed, the Narodny Dzida were ramping up their efforts. If they wanted to consolidate power, they needed to quickly neutralize outside threats.

Only the Narodny Dzida didn’t simply neutralize threats. They exploited threats. Turned them into assets. No one knew that better than Billy.

But, sitting there, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it.

What he did know, however, was that he had to do something. For his team -- for his friends -- for the ODS. Because when people were captured in Morovia, the lucky ones just died.

The unlucky few, however -- well, time would tell what happened to them.

-o-

They’d been up against bad odds in the past. The ODS had gone toe to toe with small armies of militants, bodyguards, and other heavily-armed opponents, in the face of improbable numbers, and triumphed. But in those instances, they’d been able to employ other tactical advantages.

They also hadn’t been ambushed.

Michael could deal with long odds, and wasn’t against a little risk, but even he knew when resistance was tantamount to suicide. And when he was surrounded on all sides by men pointing guns at him and his unsuspecting team, he knew his options were limited.

Slowly, he raised his hands into the air. After a moment, Rick, face drained of color, did the same, eyes wide in confusion. For a few seconds, Casey didn’t move, and Michael had a fleeting fear that the older operative would snap and try to take on those impossible odds out of sheer rage at what they’d seen in the files. But after an agonizing series of heartbeats, Malick raised his hands in surrender, though murder remained in his eyes. 

Michael gave Rick a sidelong glance that, though wordless, remained fraught with meaning. Keep your cover. It was unlikely that they could convince a small army that a few aid workers just happened to be poking around an abandoned weapons cache, but it wasn’t impossible either. So long as they kept their covers, they might get lucky.

Might.

Rick blinked, then nodded, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his anxiety. Michael glanced to his other side at Casey, but the human weapon stared adamantly forward.

Within moments, the militants swarmed them and frisked them. Their hidden weapons and surveillance gear were taken, as well as their cameras and all other equipment that had been critical to documenting their findings for the mission. Orders were barked and Michael let himself be manhandled toward one of the parked Jeeps, feigning an expression of bafflement in order to preserve his cover as a poor, confused aid worker in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn’t be sure they’d buy it, but he could be damned convincing. And the confusion wasn’t even entirely feigned... the operation had been going smoothly. It had been going well, at least in terms of semantics. They had been thorough and committed and _professional,_ and as someone yanked a black cloth bag down over his head and tossed him into a vehicle, shouting at him in some slavic language, he found himself trying to figure out just where they’d managed to slip up, to be sloppy enough for this to happen...

He reviewed the details of the operation up to that point in his mind during the drive, in part to try to fathom a possible intelligence gap, and in part to distract himself from the cloying smell of the bag, the cold feeling in his stomach, and the rapid rate of Martinez’ breathing somewhere close behind him. They bounced over potholes and sometimes something hard and cold and quite reminiscent of the muzzle of a gun poked into his back. He tried to think of any potentially compromising holes in their covers, or anything suspicious they may had done coming in through customs. But he came up blank. All he could think of instead were the grainy photos of Billy’s hollow face and twisted hands, images of his friend and colleague beaten and bloodied, tied to a chair while some twistic onlooker chronicled the slow deconstruction of of his humanity with clinically detached notes...

The jeep rattled over uneven ground and distracted and emotionally-compromised as he was, enough of Michael’s fevered-brain remained focus to recognize that they were going over the large and uneven cobbles that characterized the northern streets of the city. They were heading back into Prensk, then. 

Back toward whoever was in charge.

When the small caravan stopped Michael could hear men moving and the clatter of guns and ammunition all around. He briefly heard Rick’s voice pleading that this was “all just a big misunderstand–” 

– and then a meaty thud and a grunt as someone struck the younger operative, shutting him up. Michael winced, but knew their best chance was to hold tight until they weren’t blind and unarmed and surrounded, and could possibly talk their way out of trouble with someone who had enough authority to be bothered to listen.

He tried to pay attention to their surroundings – to count the paces even with the hood blinding him, so he could backtrack and get them out if the opportunity arose – but the problem with having a fevered brain was that it simply wouldn’t shut up. His thoughts raced, from their arrival in Morovia to their latest intel trade with Illyich to the weapons manifests to Billy to how the hell did this happen to where the hell they were being taken to how he was going to explain this all to Higgins and Fay and if he’d even need to, because right now the odds of leaving Morovia were looking pretty slim–

The guards that had been hauling him along, one gripping each arm with enough force to bruise, both let go abruptly, causing Michael to stumble and derailing his runaway train of thought. The bag was removed from his head, and a hand on his shoulder shoved him awkwardly down into a metal chair. Beside him, Martinez was blinking furiously as his eyesight adjusted to the sudden removal of the blindfold, and Casey was gritting his teeth, eyes flitting around the well-lit but spartan and unfinished room, already scanning it for potential points of egress. 

Michael began to do the same, but found his gaze drawn instead to the man who was leaning casually against the desk – the only furniture in the room apart from the three chairs the ODS currently found themselves in – hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. He wasn’t young, but wasn’t quite old, though his short, neat hair was silver and the corners of his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled. He looked familiar, like a pleasant neighbor or a favorite uncle. 

He also wasn’t what Michael anticipated, though this entire mission was taking a turn for the unexpected. He’d been prepared for someone brutish like Vereychek. This slim, unthreatening man was oddly unsettling. 

Michael cleared his throat. “I don’t know what–”

The man’s grin broadened and he raised a hand. “No.”

Michael blinked. “No?” _He looked so damn familiar...  
_  
“No,” he repeated, hopping up into a sitting position on the desk, looking for all the world like an easy-going college professor about to give a lecture. “You are going to try to say you do not know what this is about, yes? That you are, ah, relief workers, and were all in wrong place at wrong time. Am I correct?”

“It’s true–” Rick began to interrupt.

The uniformed man tsked his tongue, cutting off Martinez’ protest. “You take very interesting photos for aid workers, if that is the story you are trying to adhere to.” He reached into one of the desk’s drawers and pulled out a few prints. Even at a distance, Michael recognized the mission intel. “The continuation of this ruse is foolish and a waste of our time. So I say no. No to silly lies. It is saving everyone time and grief; wouldn’t you say, Mr. Dorset?”

The use of his name came like a punch to the gut, but Michael managed not to flinch. Even if their covers had been blown wide open, that didn’t mean they couldn’t get out of this...

… it just meant the odds had gotten a lot worse.

If their covers had been this badly compromised, it had to mean a leak. There was no way the ODS was this clumsy, this sloppy. Someone had betrayed them...

He was still formulating a reply when the door opened and one of the soldiers murmured something in Russian, of which Michael caught the words ‘information’ and ‘commander’, but little else. The man sighed, shaking his head. “Yes, yes, give Leonid his thirty pieces of silver and send him on his way,” he replied, waving a hand peevishly until the door closed.

Leonid. Leonid Illyich.

“Son of a bitch,” he heard Martinez whisper under his breath. Michael couldn’t help but silently agree.

They’d been sold out. Betrayed. Handed over to the Narodny Dzida.

And as the relaxed smile reasserted itself on the commander’s face, Michael remembered where he recognized the man from –  
 _  
– Rick flipped frantically through his notes as they looked over the photos on the most recent Morovian intelligence file. “Looks like his name is Rezin. Head of intelligence. There’s not much on him, though. Used to be a violinist–”  
_  
Intelligence. Michael found himself thinking of those clinical, inhuman notes attached to Billy’s file and suddenly the smile on Rezin’s face seemed far less avuncular and far more predatory.

“You will forgive the intrusion. I am sadly quite busy, these days, but I am making time in my schedule for you gentleman, yes?” Rezin said.

“We’re so sorry to be an imposition,” Casey drawled from between clenched teeth beside.

Rezin laughed, and Michael’s skin crawled. “Nonsense! It is my pleasure, yes?” He steepled his fingers together and smiled at each of them in turn. “I am having feeling that we are all going to become very good friends...”


	11. X. Rescue

X.  
Rescue  


_  
They came. They always came. Day after day after day, the commander’s guards arrived like clockwork and hauled him to his feet._

_They were the only ones who ever came._

_The door opened with a harsh groan and Billy squinted and blinked against the assault of fluorescent lighting. He knew the long bulbs illuminating the dank and grimy hallway couldn’t have been all that bright, but it was enough to make his eyes water after the darkness of the cell. He lowered his head to look at the floor as they dragged him along it. He knew the way well enough – a left, twenty paces, then a right, then fifty paces, then another left. Then they’d strap him down or string him up and the misery would begin._

_Well, no, the misery began two months ago. The misery would intensify. He didn’t know what fresh hell he’d be subjected to today. He didn’t care. Knowing wouldn’t stop it. Nothing would stop it. Escape was futile. So was resistance. Any action on his part simply led to more pain; though often as not, inaction meant the same inevitable result._

_Pain._

_Only this time, they didn’t turn left after fifty paces. Billy looked up, though his neck was stiff and that small motion alone was exhausting. His captors had dragged him past that small room where he’d endured countless tortures, and were hauling into into unknown stretches of hallway._

_And Billy felt the pit of his stomach go cold and the flesh on the back of his neck prickle. He thought he’d long since lost the ability to feel fear – what else could they possibly take from him that hadn’t been already stripped away? – but the assumption proved false. Because whatever was happening now, wherever he was being taken, was new. And he’d learned that new was never good; things never got better. Only worse._

_And he wasn’t sure just how much worse it could get._

_The thought frightened him._

_“Where –” he began to slur, only for one of the guards to cuff him solidly against the head, making his vision swim and go spotty for a few moments._

_They came to a new door, and Billy swallowed painfully. It opened and he was dragged in._

_There was the lieutenant with the thick neck who’d nearly drowned him to death a few days (or weeks? He had no idea) prior. And the commander. And the other guard, holding a camera on a tripod, beside a man in uniform that Billy didn’t recognize. A light, brighter even than the lights in the hall, was set to cast illumination on a spot of the cracked concrete floor, right before the video camera. The man in uniform pulled out his gun and stepped forward._

_It took a moment for Billy to recognize the set-up. But he had seen enough of these sorts of tapes that even dazed as he was, he realized what was happening. What was about to happen._

_He thought of all the footage he’d been forced to watch in training, both at MI-6 and at the CIA. All the clips they forced recruits to watch, to know the price of failure, the danger of capture. What certain organizations did to captured spies._

_He thought of Tsykalov._

_Fright became terror._

_Billy was going to die._

_He had learned not to struggle, not to fight against the pain. Fighting it meant only more pain. Sometimes they threatened to kill him. Sometimes worse. He’d learned to be listless; unresisting._

_But that had been pain. This was death._

_“No,” he whispered hoarsely, feet scrabbling feebly against the floor as he tried fruitlessly to pull free from the guards, even as they dragged him to the spot on the floor in front of the camera. “No, no...” Once he’d had a way with words, spinning them elegantly to convey his meaning with deft artistry. But now he was left with just the one protest. The only word that he’d managed to keep._

_They dropped him onto his knees and bound his hands behind his back. He felt his skin crawl in panic, and his legs go completely numb. “No...”_

_His shoulders began to shake and his breath came in shuddering gasps that might have been sobs, if he hadn’t long since exhausted his capacity to weep. He didn’t want to die; he’d held on, long after he’d had any concept of why he was doing so or what he was holding on for, other than the raw and primal desire to stay alive; it was pure animal instinct, but it was all that remained. He’d loved life, once. He’d read good books and drank good scotch and made love to beautiful women, though that all seemed a lifetime ago; someone else’s lifetime. That Billy Collins was long dead and gone, and the wretch with his name that was about to be executed was just a shadow – some lingering fragment of a man._

_It could hardly be called being alive, this._

_But it was all he had._

_The little red light on the front of the camera blinked on, and the commander stepped out in front of it. He began speaking rapidly, and Billy only caught the occasional word – he recognized the translations for ‘spy’ and ‘example’ for instance._

_Also ‘death.’_

_A few times Billy began to feel himself sway as he grew lightheaded, only to have one of the guards grab him roughly by the hair, yanking him upright. The commander finished his manifesto, turned, glanced briefly at him with a thin smirk, then nodded to the uniformed man, who removed the safety from his pistol with an ominous click._

_A ragged, gasping breath tore from Billy’s throat as the man crossed in front of the camera and took up position behind him. He felt the cold metal of the barrel press against the back of his skull._

_He was going to die here, in a hole in some bunker in a forgotten country. He was going to die, and it was all going to end, right here, right now. He was going to die, and that meant they had nothing left to take from him._

_Nothing left to lose._

_Nothing._

_Billy closed his eyes and braced himself to be delivered from all this._

_The soldier pulled the trigger._

_And the only noise was a horrible and resounding click._

_Billy opened his eyes. The commander was standing in front of him with a cruel grin stretching ear to ear._

_“What,” he said. “You were not thinking we would let it be that easy, were you?”_

_Billy stared at him for a moment as his brain struggled to catch up. He’d been bracing himself for death. He was dying. The trigger had been pulled and this was all going to end..._

_He was going to die.  
He was going to be free._

_But instead, he was alive. No, no that couldn’t be right. They had taken everything from him. Even his life. Only his life hadn’t been the last thing left for them to take..._

_They hadn’t just taken his life. They’d taken his death from him._

_Nothing left._

_The world around him blurred and tilted as he slumped to the ground, and an inhuman wail of primordial anguish echoed through the room and into the hall as the last bit of what remained of Billy Collins, born and bruised in North Edinburgh, broke.  
_  
-o-

Billy had been out of the game for a year now, but after a career of spying, some habits apparently did die hard. The first objective: establish a cover.

In Billy’s circumstances, this would be a two-fold task. As a CIA agent and before that, with MI6, his job had been lying and subterfuge. This meant that his work cohorts were all readily aware of his deceptions, providing him a certain measure of honesty among liars. Billy wasn’t a spy anymore, though. True, he had not been fired or even technically reassigned from the ODS, but he was sure that he had been granted some sort of disability leave. He vaguely remembered signing some paperwork, but it hadn’t seemed especially pertinent at the time.

And it wasn’t pertinent now. His official status aside, there was a mission that had to be done, and he was the one to do it. Granted, turning to the Agency with his information might have some merit, but the time it would take to organize a tactical team would be too much. Billy didn’t even have anything concrete except his doubts and the demeaning revelation of his own failure. 

No, this job was his. His team had been compromised on his behalf and he couldn’t risk being put under surveillance by sharing his tips while the Agency twiddled its thumbs and let three agents suffer in the name of the greater good. There was no greater good in suffering. It was just suffering, and Billy wished it on no one.

Which meant his duplicity had to be on both fronts. Overseas and Stateside. 

The lies to those who cared about him would be the hardest. Not necessarily for the guilt, but to pull off. Yet, if he was going to make this work, he had to try. Given his history, suddenly going silent would only warrant extra attention. He had to convince those around him that all was well, that he didn’t need their well-intended interference. In short, Billy had to convince them that he was actually improving.

It was a novel thought. Improving. Showing initiative. Billy had no inclination for it in reality, but for the sake of the mission, it was a necessary ruse.

His hangover was abating, fading to a gently thrumming headache. He scrounged together some grounds to make some coffee, letting the pot percolate while he pulled out his phone.

He waited until there was enough coffee for a cup, and poured himself some. He drank it black, but the stark liquid made him queasy so he fumbled around until he found the sugar and loaded it up. The sweetness was invigorating, and he roused his senses just enough to give him the courage to make the first call.

Still drinking the coffee, he settled himself at the table. Frowning, he pushed the piles aside to give himself a place to sit. Then, he pulled out his phone and looked at it.

It was innocuous enough, though he hadn’t used it nearly as much as he used to. He remembered the days of experimenting with his camera phone, of texting vague orders to Blanke to see just what the man would do. He remembered groping for it at 4 AM when Michael called with an off-the-books mission he just came into.

He remembered.

The thoughts made him a bit sick. He took another drink and pushed them aside. Such things were neither here nor there. He had a task to complete now, and that had to be his singular focus.

With that resolution, he pulled up his contact list, sorting through the numbers until he found Fay’s. Since his teammates had given him the space he’d requested, Fay had been the most frequent and adamant of his supporters. Blanke still checked in from time to time, as did Adele and Doris and a few sundry others, but Fay was the one who had taken it upon herself to ensure that he was maintaining his therapy and mostly not curling up into a ball and dying.

Consequently, she was the one he had to convince.

It was a less than pleasant thought.

But he’d survived bloody torture. Coercing Michael’s ex to leave him alone for a few days would most certainly not be as bad.

Pressing the call button, he held the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. Fay answered promptly. “Billy?” she asked, sounding more than a little concerned.

Apparently being catatonic, depressed, volatile and generally miserable made people doubt your motives when ringing.

“Fay,” he said, as brightly as he could. 

There was a small pause. “Are you drunk?” she asked.

“Sadly, no,” Billy said. “I slept off the worst last night and am most sober this morning.”

“And you’re not hurt?” she asked. 

Billy felt his cheeks flush. “No more than usual,” he said.

There was another hesitation. “That’s good, then,” she said. “I was going to be by later to take you to your session--”

“Which is why I called,” Billy interjected, seeing his chance. 

“Billy, I told you, you have to go--”

“I know, I know,” he said. “And wise words those were. It took me a while for them to sink in, but now I think I can better appreciate your point. Time to make some choices, as it were.”

“Yeah...,” she said slowly.

“Which is why I will not be needing a ride to therapy today,” he said as certainly as possible.

“Billy--”

“Because I fully intend to get there myself,” he said readily, before she could work up another reasonable lecture on the value of seizing life.

“But you can’t drive,” she said dubiously.

“Aye, that is unfortunate,” he said. “However, you Americans are always far too keen to write off public transportation.”

“You’re going to take the bus?” she asked, even more doubtful than before.

“Indeed!” Billy said. “Lovely things, busses. And quite environmentally friendly. A little PTSD is no reason to further strain our planet’s scarce resources.”

She was quiet for another minute. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Obviously appealing to environmental causes was not the proper route to take. Not that Fay couldn’t be something of an environmentalist, but her concern was elsewhere. Probably understandably, given that Billy had been living like a recluse in his flat for the better part of a year.

No, wayward logic wasn’t going to convince of anything except that he had possibly had a psychotic break. He needed to change his approach.

He took a breath, quieting himself to be as genuine as possible. “Not entirely,” he admitted finally. “But what you said before -- about making choices. You’re right. I haven’t made my own choices in so long that I think I forgot how. It may seem insignificant, but the simple act of going on my own, of walking out my front door without duress -- it feels important. A place to start, at any rate. Maybe then, when I can handle the little things, I’ll be able to start handling the rest.”

She was quiet again, and Billy felt his heart skip a beat. She might see through him. She might call his bluff. She might still drag him down herself for a full psychological workup and then clean him out of his lovely alcohol once again.

But instead, she said, “Okay.”

Billy blinked, not trusting himself to breathe. “Okay?”

“If you promise to go on your own, I’ll trust you,” she said.

It was the result he’d been vying for, but somehow, her words surprised him. The simple certainty of it all. To hear that she trusted him. After everything he’d done, she trusted him.

How long had it been since anyone trusted him? Since he deserved it?

The irony, of course, was that he didn’t deserve it now. He was lying to her, unrepentant and blatant.

And yet, somehow it still _mattered._

“I promise you,” he said with as much earnestness as he had, “I am finally going to start doing what needs to be done in my life.”

If the rest was a lie, that much was technically true.

That was how Billy had always looked at the truth. Subjective in many senses, as long as the essence had validity.

And the essence here was the truest thing Billy had said in a year.

“All right, then,” she said. “Do you need something for dinner?”

Billy scoffed. “I have enough food to last me a week,” he said. “Good variety, too. Though your selection of Greek has been quite a tempting variation.”

She laughed slightly. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Aye,” Billy agreed. “Seems like the best things in life often are.”

And not just Greek food. But good alcohol, friendly conversation. Friends to trust with your life. Spywork.

Things he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore, but things he thought he might have to appreciate again before it was too late.

-o-

Talking to Fay was perhaps the hardest part of setting up his cover, but it was by no mean the only part. He had to think of all the contingencies, establish all the necessary protocol if he was going to pull this off.

After reassuring Fay of his intention to reclaim his life, he contacted his therapist. She was neutral in that professional way of hers, but when he said that he was visiting friends for the next week, she sounded genuinely encouraging. He promised to show up promptly when he was back in town, all of which was true.

Michael, Casey and Rick were his friends -- or as close to friends as he had these days -- and they were most decidedly out of town. True, rescuing said friends from the likely hands of cruel torturers was not an idyllic holiday, but if she had wanted him to start taking agency, then this would most certainly qualify.

After securing his alibis Stateside, Billy turned his attention to the cover that would get him overseas. For this, there was less smooth talking and more concrete work to be done. Finding a box of cereal, he shoveled a handful in his mouth before going to his bedroom. Flicking the lights on, he gave the room a disapproving look, wondering how he’d actually managed to live here for months and not realize how utterly impersonal it was. 

That wasn’t the issue though. Frowning, he waded through the piles of clothing -- mostly dirty, he would guess because he actually couldn’t remember doing laundry -- and found his way to the closet.

The clothes here were still neatly hung -- his suits and dress shirts, slacks neatly ironed in true Michael Dorset fashion. He tried to imagine the man, diligently tending to Billy’s things before he’d been released for the hospital, as if thinking Billy might need them someday.

It hadn’t been when Michael had thought, but the diligence was paying off in the end. Little had Michael known it wasn’t Billy’s life he’d be saving in this, but his own.

The thought was a bit sobering, so Billy shoved the suits aside, rummaging around for the hollow spot on the wall. He’d hollowed it out years ago when he’d first settled here. It was well obscured, though a bit cliched, but when the back panel popped free, he couldn’t help but grin.

From inside, he pulled out the lockbox. Quickly putting in the combination, it swung open, the latch creaking from disuse.

But it was all still there. Over the years, Billy had maintained a number of IDs. Some he used with his teammates for independent ventures. Some, he’d kept for himself in case of emergency.

And this was an emergency.

He flipped through the packets, looking for the one that would work best. He needed a cover that would get him into a semi-militarized country on the brink of civil war. Wayward tourist wouldn’t cut it. Casual businessman would be a no-go.

But a contractor...had potential. Aspiring contractors knew there was much money to be made in countries with instability. Fighting was hell on infrastructure, and Joshua Dalton was certainly keenly opportunistic in this sense.

Satisfied, he pulled the documents, giving them a look. The details were straightforward, but the picture showed a much better groomed man. 

“You really were a handsome devil, weren’t you?” he mused to his own smiling photograph. “You’ve had some hard times, Joshua, but let’s see if we can’t get you back into shape, shall we?”

-o-

For months, Billy had simply drifted through his own life without drive, without purpose, without anything propelling him beyond the intervening hands and suggestions of the people around him. For months, he’d needed Michael’s notes to remind him to eat and dress himself. Had needed Fay’s phone calls to get him to remember there was a world outside his flat. He had been freed from his literal cell, but had remained imprisoned figuratively by his own overwhelming apathy.

Billy hadn’t cared if he lived or died.

But he still damn well cared if Michael and Casey and Rick did.

His own life, his own recovery and happiness had failed to be a source of motivation for him. But his team – and they would always be his team, no matter what he told himself – was more important than that. They deserved better. And right now Billy was the only one who could properly intervene.

So it was with thoughts of the ODS that Billy got himself into the shower, actually bothering to soap up and wash his hair instead of simply standing under the hot water as he’d been wont to do over the past few weeks. It was out of a need to look the part for his cover, and not any sense of self-respect, that he lathered up and shaved away the heavy stubble from his jaw. And when he pulled the lamb-kebabs from the Greek takeout place that Fay had brought by out from the fridge, he didn’t pause to savor the taste, but forked food into his mouth with the singular purpose of a man who knew he needed protein.

He dug through his closet for a suit. Many of them would be too large now – he’d put enough weight back on that he wasn’t emaciated, but he was still too thin, even after all these months – but after a bit of digging he found an older suit from back in his MI6 days. It smelled a wee bit of mothballs, but suits fortuitously didn’t go out of style as often as other clothing did, and while he had to cinch his belt a bit tighter than he’d used to, it didn’t fit quite as badly as he’d feared.

Fed, groomed, and dressed, he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror.

The man who stared back at him was still a bit thin, a bit careworn, but actually looked surprisingly like a whole and functioning human being.

Looked surprisingly like a man named Billy Collins.

-o-

At the airport, Billy had to force himself to stay calm. All of his instincts were screaming to run -- and fast -- because there were so many people. They were all moving about, going about their lives as if everything was absolutely normal.

And it probably was absolutely normal, but it hardly felt normal to Billy. He was fed, groomed, and dressed, and by all accounts, he appeared to be just another bloke going about his life, but in reality, he felt like anything but. Every movement made him nervous, and he felt twitchy as he tried to keep track of the barrage of humanity all around him.

It was almost too much. The crying child, being herded into his mother’s arms. The obnoxious co-ed, smacking gum and talking on the phone in the middle of a walkway. The doting couple, sharing kisses and lovelorn glances. Men in business suits; families on holiday. A woman with dark hair and dark glasses, looking somewhat suspicious.

He couldn’t trust them; he couldn’t trust anyone, even himself. He was a horrid, broken man, who had given up everything that had mattered to him. There was no way of telling who was like him, who would use him and discard him like he was nothing. These were sons and daughters, teachers and leaders, violinists and torturers...

Too many. There were too many. Too many uncontrollable variables. He could barely trust himself to get up in the morning, but to get through these people? Without being found out?

Billy had always been as paranoid as the rest of them, but he’d known how to control it. How to assess and engage accordingly. These were just people, not threats. This was just an airport.

Just an airport.

The last time he could remember getting on a plane had been on his trip to Morovia. Before...

His breath caught.

Before everything. His life was divided by that moment and he couldn’t go backward. He could only go forward. One step -- limping or not -- at a time.

One step.

Billy let out the breath, slowly and with purpose.

Just one step.

Not for himself; for his teammates. If he deserved to die in a rank, darkened chamber, they didn’t.

For them, he would take this step. For them, there could be no more turning back.

He hoisted his carryon higher on his shoulder, slipping his sunglasses over his face. He felt the ebb and flow of the crowd, easing alongside and making his way to the counter. 

There was a line, and Billy tried to make himself relax.

He could do this. He’d waited in countless lines, stood in innumerable airports. He could do this.

He would do this.

In his life as a spy, he’d played many parts. In fact, much of who Billy Collins was was nothing more than a crafted construct that he’d fine-tuned over the years. Billy Collins did not fret over the past. His unceremonious departure from MI6 had never bothered him. He was friendly and affable and easily acclimated.

It was just another part. He could be broken and no one would have to know. One man in his time plays many parts, and this was just one more.

The hardest and the simplest one yet.

When the line finally inched forward, Billy stepped up to the counter, taking off his glasses and smiling broadly at the woman behind the desk. Quickly, he made a mental note of her. Younger than him, nicely kept hair pulled back neatly. Polished nails and feminine makeup. No wedding ring, but not by choice. 

In the past, he might have considered trying to get her number. He wasn’t interested in dating, but a little charm could only help secure his flight in a timely fashion. 

With that in mind, he rallied himself. If this was going to succeed, he needed not to just look the part, but act it, too. This wasn’t just a phone call with Fay or his therapist. This was face to face interaction, eye contact and stimulating conversation. It was dashing smiles and coy winks.

Thank God for reconstructive dental work. His teeth actually looked better than ever, and he could make full use of it now. Most people didn’t think of casual flirtation as a viable means of saving the world, but Billy had once made a career proving them otherwise.

He eased his stance, tucking the glasses in his jacket pocket. “Hello, there,” he said, with as much gusto as he could muster.

Weary as she was with the tedium of working for an airline, she seemed to give him a double take, her polite smile turning up just slightly further and her pupils dilating with distinct interest. “What can I do for you today, sir?”

All Billy really wanted was a quick ride back to his place where he could lock the door and get stupendously drunk. As that was no longer an option he could afford to entertain, he shrugged, relaxing one hand against the counter and lounging. “Well, as it happens, I’m interested in a flight to the tumultuous land of Morovia,” he said with a flourish, even though the name of the country still tasted bitter in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, sounding actually disappointed. “We don’t currently carry flights to Morovia.”

It was all he could do not to flush in embarrassment. “Ah, yes,” Billy said, realizing his mistake. He should have remembered that and been prepared with alternatives. Making such requests was an amateur mistake. Unstable countries didn’t often have direct access from the States. He was rusty. “Maybe to Poland, then? With a connection a bit closer?”

Dutifully, she typed a few things, brow furrowed. “Yes, I think we can squeeze you in our next flight to Krakow, where you could book a flight on our sister European airline.” She looked up at him earnestly. “Where was your desired final destination in Morovia?”

“Prensk, actually,” he said.

“I’ve never been there,” she mused as she turned back to her computer monitor and typed some more. “Is it a nice city?”

Billy suppressed the urge to shudder, trying to think of the cobblestones and the lazy river, not the putrid cells and grotesque interrogation chambers.

That wasn’t relevant now. Getting this ticket was relevant.

Accordingly, he forced himself to keep smiling. “It has a certain charm about it,” he said as lyrically as he could. “It’s having a bit of a rough time there of late, but I believe in the integrity of the fine Morovian people, save a few unsavory and violently inclined figures. Plus, the weather this time of year is perfectly mild. Perfect for leisurely strolls.”

She finished typing and met his gaze again. “That sounds nice,” she said. Her eyes lingered on his tie. “Business or pleasure?”

The irony of such a question was not lost on Billy. He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I think perhaps a wee bit of both.”

Her eyes swept over him, taking in his loosened tie, his long torso. “Do you have a seating preference?”

On his couch, back home, really. She undoubtedly wanted to hear him suggest a four-star restaurant, just the two of them. 

Neither answer was actually to the point, however. He needed to focus. 

“I’m easy -- and flexible.”

She blushed up to her ears. 

“Just the first thing you can find,” he said with a diffusing shrug. “I’m afraid time is of the essence for this jaunt. I’d even rest easy in the cargo hold.”

She chuckled. “How about business class instead?” she said. When she glanced up, she seemed to look him over. She chewed her lip and typed again. “Though, you seem like you could use the extra leg room. If you can keep a secret, I’ll bump you up to first class.”

“That’s incredibly kind of you,” he said.

She shrugged, clearly contented. “Some people just look like they deserve a little pick-me-up,” she said. “And you definitely look like you could use something to make this trip go a little smoother.”

“You have wisdom beyond your years,” he said.

She blushed again, beaming at him a bit as she handed back his card. “Any luggage to check?”

“Just me and my bag, I’m afraid,” Billy said.

Winking, her smile was somewhat flirtatious. “You’ll save yourself some hassles, then. Smart man,” she said. Then, she reached down, producing his freshly printed ticket. “Well, here you go, sir,” she said, inclining her head suggestively. “Have a nice trip.”

He took the ticket, swallowing back any lingering fear or uncertainty. “Don’t worry,” he said, holding her eye contact and giving her one last lingering look. “I most definitely plan to.”

-o-

Over the course of his life, Billy had taken many long flights. Such things were seemingly inevitable in the spy game, and Billy had gotten quite adept at managing the hours without much duress.

At least, that had been the case when Billy was an actual spy.

Now, Billy was a broken man, barely holding himself together for the sake of his friends. His days of sleeping lightly were gone; his customary nonchalance was a thing of the past. He could still dredge up enough affectation to fool the unknowing stranger, but he was undoubtedly a changed man.

It was true, the flight was comfortable. His free upgrade to first class afforded him plentiful legroom and a tad more privacy, both of which he appreciated. Though he had been given a clean bill of health at his latest checkup, he was far from the fit and trained spy he’d once been. His legs felt restless, phantom pains spreading throughout his body. His fingers started to ache, and the air pressure started a nagging headache forming at the back of his head. The extra space was, therefore, used accordingly, as he shifted himself about to find the most comfortable position.

The comfort was one thing; the privacy was another. The other passengers all had a generally innocuous look, but none of them seemed wholly innocent to Billy. He couldn’t help but glance around, making out his fellow plane mates, assessing their intentions, ascertaining their potential risk, and mostly trying to talk himself out of tackling any of them and demanding to know who they worked for.

In all, he was beginning to understand what it meant to live like a paranoid bastard all over again. Michael Dorset no longer had anything on him.

Because Billy didn’t trust people. He’d always wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt before, even if he’d been keenly aware of their potential otherwise. But one of the unintended consequences of being stripped of his dignity and his humanity was that he no longer knew how to afford such things to others. This was a world of evil people. He had known that, of course, but he had never felt the blows on his body, never felt his psyche stripped away, never marinated in his own filth.

Humanity was not to be trusted. It either tricked you...

Or destroyed you from the inside out.

Billy’s own humanity had foiled him. He had broken, given himself up, and no matter what was done to him, that had still been his choice. 

If Billy didn’t trust people, though, he didn’t trust himself more for this reason. He was fallible. He was imperfect. He was fragile. Such things weren’t just words to him any longer; it wasn’t a romantic sentiment, beautified by prose. It was a cold and cruel reality. On a scale of one to ten, his fear would always be at a nine, for the rest of his life. 

Yet, there was nothing to be done for it. He’d surrendered himself once. He could not do so for his friends. His fear had to be a workable thing, because the alternative was no alternative at all.

The long hours of the night, however, were difficult. His body hurt; his mind would not slow down. He was far from field worthy, and this could end very poorly if he wasn’t careful. 

And really, what did he think he was going to do? Fly to Morovia and play the conquering hero? When he could barely get out of bed most mornings? He was going to rescue his friends when he could barely keep himself fed and clean?

The only answer was yes, but he was not so foolish as to think it would necessarily be an easy task. The notion of mounting a rescue was daunting, but he knew that first he had to properly ascertain the truth. After all, he was not in contact with his former teammates. Fay had made no indication of worry or fear on the phone, and though she might be inclined to hide such things from him, he doubted she would be able to pull it off. Not with Michael.

This meant that the team might not be missing yet at all, which was most certainly the best case scenario. Whatever set up was in place, might not have been executed just yet. Or there could have been no set up at all.

At any rate, he had to get to Morovia and first check on the team. He had their cover stories, so finding out if they were well and about wouldn’t be too much of a trial. Then, regardless of their state, he would have a nice long chat with Illyich.

Of course, chats in Morovia weren’t always friendly and casual. Billy knew that now. And soon Illyich would, too.

Somehow, this thought made the rest of the flight easier as he stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. With sleep still elusive, he went over his plan again, recounting the details, establishing contingencies, planning for everything.

When the plane finally landed in Poland, Billy was both relieved and terrified.

But mostly, he was ready.

-o-

By the time Billy got to Morovia, he was more than a little tired. The long flight across the Atlantic had sapped him, and then the exchange in Krakow had drained whatever he might have had in his reserves. A year ago, such travel might have seemed laborious but never quite so tiring, but when he finally made it through Morovian customs, he was sorely missing his messy flat back in the States.

That was wholly irrelevant, though. He missed a lot of things in life he would never get back, his happiness and overall sense of self most likely among them. The thing was, though, he’d come this far. He made this choice, and it was time to see it through.

Still, as he stood at the airport exit, he found such commitment easier said than done. This was Morovia, after all. The place of winding streets, tepid breezes and monotonous torture chambers. 

In this, part of him wanted to stand there forever, never leave this airport. To never take the risk. This country had taken everything from him.

Though, really, that just meant he really had nothing left to lose.

That resolve was cold and bleak, but it was all he needed to push the door open and step out into the gray Morovian daylight.

-o-

Normally on a mission, it was customary to lay low at first, get a feel for the situation and set up the operation. Billy liked to check into the hotel, lounge on the bed and find a fine local pub to assess the local culture.

There was nothing normal about this mission -- or Billy for that matter. He took a cab straight to the hotel and asked for Michael’s alias. With confirmation that Michael and the others had in fact been here, Billy took out a room of his own. He dropped his things off first before snaking around to Michael’s room. He knocked, waiting cautiously by the door. When there was no reply, he glanced down the hall.

There was a man going into his room, so Billy waited until he was out of sight. Then, he pulled out his lockpick.

Picking locks had always been a particular skill of his. He’d prided himself on being fast and efficient at such things. He still knew how to do it -- how to find the sweet spot and jiggle it just so -- and though his reconstructive fingers could move the way he asked, the entire process was awkward now. He fumbled, almost dropping the pick, and just as his face was flushing in embarrassment, the lock gave way and the door swung open.

Breathing heavily, Billy slipped inside, his guard up. Swiftly, he checked the rooms, finding it vacant. He recognized each travel bag, seeing Rick’s laptop properly stowed and charging in the closest outlet. Casey’s toiletries were neatly lined up on the bathroom sink. The wall safe was firmly locked, covered by neatly hung suits -- clearly Michael’s handiwork.

They could be out, of course. Given the detail of the mission report, the team wouldn’t have much time for dallying in the room.

Still, something seemed off. The beds were freshly made -- clearly maid service had been here. He glanced at the time. It was still early, which meant that this was yesterday’s service at best. Spywork often called for odd hours, but for all of the beds to be made up was a bit...peculiar. He went to the desk, noting its appearance. Neat and orderly, which was to be expected. Billy had been the slob of the team, and with maid service being what it was, it seemed only normal for things to be tidy. But the coffee maker was clean. When Billy touched it, it was also dry -- also untouched for over a day.

His findings were similar in the bathroom. There was no trace of water in the sink or shower -- and all of the toothbrushes were dry. The odor was neutral, no hint of Casey’s distinctive aftershave or Michael’s poor man’s deodorant.

His team hadn’t been here in a day -- probably three or more. Sometimes missions changed, but as aid workers, they would have daily routines to keep. For all of them to be AWOL -- well, it wasn’t probable.

Fear began to gnaw at his stomach, and he felt his nerves start to flutter uneasily. If something had happened...if Billy’s suspicions were right...  
 _  
From somewhere behind him, a heavily-accented voice emerged: “We are going to ask you questions. And you are going to give us answers.”  
_  
Billy shuddered. He swallowed, finding himself shaky. If his suspicions were right, then he had no time to waste. 

-o-

It was already evening when Billy ventured back out into the city. The weary day-travelers were on their way home, tired businessmen slinking through the ruined streets with their heads down, as if that could hide the damage. 

The changes were significant. True, Morovia had never been an idyllic place, but its charm was mostly gone now, darkened like the boarded up storefronts and shattered like the streetlights on the cobblestone. Life still went on, though, because that was what life did. It persisted even in the face of insurmountable odds. Even when there was no point.

This was something Billy understood, something Billy shared with these people. When this country took more than one had to give, there was no other option but to keep on anyway.

Finding Illyich’s store was easy enough -- Billy’s memory in all of this was painfully intact. The open sign was still up, but inside, the store was quiet. Loitering, Billy eased his way up to the counter when he heard the racket in back.

The voice was rougher than Billy remembered, but the slippery, self deprecating quality was as thick and cloying as cigar smoke. Stiffly, Billy willed himself not to move, not even as Illyich ducked out of the back.

He looked older than Billy remembered, his hair whiter and more frazzled. The grizzled beard was uneven and a touch too long, his gait stunted as he made his way to the counter. He muttered in Ukrainian -- a vague curse that Billy recognized -- before he looked up.

For a moment, their eyes met. Billy remembered that last look Illyich had given him, that knowing backward look. Uncertain. Apologetic. Then finally, decided.

Illyich _knew._ He had known then and he knew _now._

The man froze, mouth hanging open, eyes dilating in fear. His breath caught, and he started to tremble.

Billy offered him a smile. “Hello, old friend,” he said. 

Illyich startled just slightly, not daring to blink. He convulsed, seeming half ready to run, but there was nowhere for him to go. Billy knew what it was like to be caught, and Illyich was well and truly taken.

Billy inclined his head, refusing to break the eye contact. “I believe we have some business to discuss.”

-o-

Illyich didn’t so much invite Billy to the back as he was forcibly marched there. It didn’t take much; one suggestion and an unremitting look, and Illyich did whatever Billy asked without complaint.

In the back room, Billy closed the door, locking it promptly. Then he turned, scanning the area. “Is this place bugged?” he asked, moving to the wall and running his finger under the picture frames before shifting some of the books on the shelf.

“No, no,” Illyich said, too fast, too agreeable. “No one comes back here but friends.” He tried to look at Billy brightly. “Old friends, only. You have my word.”

Billy smirked at that, lifting up one the lamps and looking it over just to be sure. “If this is how you treat your friends, mate, you might want to work on your understanding of friendship.”

Illyich swallowed, gesturing a little wildly. “It is so good to see you, though!” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

He really just sounded scared. Billy gave him an appraising look. “Surprising, too, I gather,” he surmised. “You probably didn’t expect to see the man you sold out to be killed.”

Illyich’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “I would never--”

Billy arched an eyebrow. “So you deny it, then?”

“We were friends!” Illyich protested. “We had a very profitable friendship! My intelligence -- it was always good, yes?”

“Spot on,” Billy agreed. “So I can only assume the intelligence you offered the Narodny Dzida was just as good.”

Illyich flinched at the name, his jaw visibly tightening.

“So I’m right, then,” he said.

Breathing heavily, Illyich shook his head. “I know nothing, friend,” he said. “I provide intelligence for the good guys. The US of A, yes? Go America!”

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a lovely sentiment,” he said. “And one I’d love to believe.”

“Then do!” Illyich interjected readily.

Billy gave him a withering look. “Then tell me,” he said, stepping forward just slightly. “How is it you are still here?”

Illyich shrugged. “I am likeable!” he said. “Everyone trusts me!”

Billy wasn’t buying it. “The problem is that when the Narodny Dzida took me, they tortured me for weeks. Months,” he said. “One can only hold out so long...” He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “And if you’ve never been tortured, then you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it is to have everything taken from you until you want to just give the rest away. You stop caring about the finer things in life. You stop caring about life altogether. You stop caring about friends and family. You tell them everything.”

Twitching, Illyich swallowed.

Billy’s gaze didn’t waver. “You tell them who you are. You tell them who you work for,” he continued. Then he wet his lips, leaning further forward. “You tell them why you’re there. You tell them about little old shopkeepers who sell you intelligence on the side. You tell them about their store, how much money you paid them. You tell them his age and his likes. You tell them everything they want to know.”

Illyich looked ready to cry, eyes wide and wet.

But Billy didn’t slow down. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, Illyich, but I sold you out,” he said. “They broke my bones and burned my flesh and I told them everything about you. I felt guilty about that until I realized you had sold me out first.”

Illyich took a breath, shaking his head. “No, no--”

Billy lashed out, swiping hard at the contents of Illyich’s desk. The lamp clattered to the floor, and something glass shattered. Billy slammed his hands on the table and thrust himself forward, until his face was mere inches from Illyich. “You really are going to lie to me?” he asked. “After everything I went through because of you? You’re going to stand there and lie?”

The protest was evident on Illyich’s face and his mouth moved as if to speak it. But then his face crumpled and he shook his head desperately. “I am sorry,” he said, the tears falling now. “I am so, so sorry. I never knew. If I had known -- I never knew!”

There it was; the confession. Billy’s teeth ground together with grim satisfaction. “So you were working for the Narodny Dzida,” he said. “For how long?”

Illyich took a tremulous breath.

“How long?!” Billy growled.

“All along!” Illyich said, gasping now. “I worked for them from the beginning.”

Billy’s stomach clenched.

“It was nothing, though,” he said. “They paid me to help them keep track of who was watching them. Surveillance, they said. Just so they could mend their defenses, yes? Improve their security forces.”

“And so you fed us false intelligence,” Billy concluded.

“Not false exactly,” Illyich said. “Just carefully chosen. Enough to keep you happy, but nothing too sensitive. It was a win-win all around, I thought. The Narodny Dzida can see who is in the country and you can control some of the intelligence in the area.”

“And you get a nice payday from both sides,” Billy concluded.

“Business here, it is not so good,” Illyich tried to explain. “I am an old man! I have bills and responsibilities!”

“And so when they wanted an operative--?” Billy pressed.

Illyich visibly paled. “I never agreed to that,” he said. “They just asked for the time and place of our payoff. I thought they wanted an identification, yes? Just a visual. I did not know they would take you.”

Billy straightened, laughing bitterly as he rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You mean, you thought they were just going to see who I was and let me go on my way?” he asked. He gave Illyich a look of disappointment. “You’re old, not stupid.”

“I swear to you, my friend,” he said, pleading now. “I knew nothing. And I can make it up to you! I can give you back the money -- and more! I can give you anything you want!”

“I don’t want your money,” Billy said.

“Then, what?” Illyich asked. “Anything.”

“I want my friends,” he said, watching Illyich carefully.

At that, Illyich froze again, and Billy knew.

His face twisted into a sneer. “You bastard,” he said. “You sold them out, too, eh?”

Illyich looked genuinely pained. “I had no choice,” he said. “The Narodny Dzida -- they weren’t happy with what I gave them. They wanted more and more. At first, they didn’t ask for more. But then they started demanding. They were going to take my store, hurt my family. They were going to kill me if I didn’t.”

Billy shook his head. “We trusted you,” he said. “We treated you well.”

“They threatened me!” Illyich insisted. “They are scary, horrible men! I am an old man. I have no defense.”

“You think I don’t know what these people are capable of?” Billy asked. “You think I don’t still carry the scars? That I don’t still have nightmares? I know better than you what these people are capable of and you just sold out three of the best men I’ve ever met for your own comfort.”

Illyich almost whimpered. “I am an old man, friend,” he said. 

“Then I should just kill you now,” he said, edging closer. “Put you out of your misery.”

Illyich tensed, shaking with new vigor. “You would not kill me,” he said, trying to sound certain but just sounding terrified. “I know you better than that, yes? You are a good man. Too good to be like them.”

It was a compliment of sorts; one Billy might have believed once, before all this.

But he couldn’t go back. There was nothing to go back, too. There was only life going forward.

He kept himself steady, eyes unwavering as he pinned Illyich with a deadly stare. “Aye, this might have been true,” Billy said. “Once I was a good man. I used to be a man of integrity. I used to be a man of finesse. I honored my friendship. I kept my promises. I didn’t like bloodshed. I thought it unnecessary most of the time.”

Illyich swallowed so hard that he nearly keeled over.

Billy didn’t back down, looming closer as Illyich seemed to shrink. “You see, though,” he said, pulling his knife out, and placing it on the desk, flat before him, the hilt still gripped in his palm. Illyich’s eyes flickered down but Billy willed him to look back up. “That’s the thing. I _used_ to be a man. Now, after everything, I’m not sure what I am anymore.”

Illyich shuddered, his body hunching over.

Billy lifted the knife, shrugging a little. “And that’s a pity for you,” he said, smirking with deadly intent. “Because we’re about to find out.”

-o-

Billy snuck out the back, into the alleyway behind Illyich’s store. Glancing cautiously up and down, Billy adjusted his coat, lifting the collar to the wind. His fraying nerves were deadened now, replaced by a cold, calculating certainty.

Satisfied he was alone, he sifted through the keys he’d taken looking for the right one. Illyich’s small car was parked right out back, and Billy wasted no time in unlocking it and appraising its condition. It wasn’t anything special, but it had a full tank of gas and seemed to be in working order. It would work.

Just like everything else would work. He had all the information he needed now -- names, locations, the price. Illyich, it seemed, was quite useful after all. The Commander had been right about one thing -- all it took was the right pressure.

Numbly, Billy loaded the car up. In the past, he might have found another way, might have attempted some persuasion. But there were few things as powerful as the fear for one’s life. Such things could be used for better or worse.

Jaw tight and stomach churning, Billy told himself that everything he was doing, everything he was about to do, was for the better. 

Only time would tell if he were right or not.

-o-

He drove until he was on the outskirts of Prensk. Here, the winding ancient roads had given way to wide, rundown highways, and the industrial areas had turned into abandoned warehouses. With a keen eye, he pulled into one of the smaller alleys, making sure he had enough space to turn around quickly in case he needed to make some kind of fast break.

As it was, this was an area he vaguely remembered. The arms deal they’d first come to Morovia for had been no more than a mile to the west. Gauging the geography in his head, he figured they were on the opposite side of town from where the arms cache was supposed to be.

The arms cache, according to Illyich, had been legitimate. It had once served as a base of operations for the Narodny Dzida, but with the uprising, it had been hastily abandoned. Billy had to give the group credit -- they knew how to pull off an effective ruse. Any other location with less verifiable use would never have attracted so much attention. It was true that one was more inclined to catch flies with honey, and to catch spies, important intel was the only bait that mattered.

Illyich had quickly confessed to the site being nothing more than a lure to trap the team. He had been more reluctant to tell Billy the actual site where his teammates were being held. He had said he couldn’t be sure, but that he had been there many times himself. At first, as a guest. Then, as something less.

From this vantage point, he could see the building. It had once been a factory, and the exterior had clearly been allowed to look abandoned. But the small things gave it away. Active power lines; pristine fencing. Even meticulously barred windows, darkly tinted. 

Taking out his binoculars, he looked closer. Keypads on the doors. A complicated gate system on the driveway. No guards on the exterior, but varied security cameras.

Putting the binoculars down, Billy tried to keep breathing. It was a daunting task, just to think about it. He had to get in, undetected. He had to navigate the halls without being caught. Then he had to stage a rescue and get his friends out, all by himself.

And hoping that he had the stamina and mental fortitude to pull it off.

Billy chewed his lip. He didn’t necessarily have to do this alone. He could call back to the Agency. He had concrete intelligence now, they would mount a rescue operation. Assuming, of course, Higgins approved it. He had not given Michael carte blanche to rescue Billy, and the political situation in Morovia was even less stable now. It was very likely that the ODS would be disavowed.

Even if Higgins did approve a mission, it would take too long to organize. By that time, there was no telling what would happen to the ODS. Billy had been singularly useful partially because he was alone. With three operatives, there were more creative means of applying pressure. 

Billy didn’t want to save just a few of his friends; he needed to save them all.

Which meant he would do this. Alone.

Picking up his binoculars again, he scanned the exterior, looking for weaknesses. He needed to find a weak point in the fence, a blind spot on the security system. Something, anything.

Because he was committed to doing whatever needed to be done. He just didn’t know what that was.

-o-

At the hotel, Billy laid out all the papers from the file Rick had given him. Then, he opened Michael’s safe and pored through the rest of the intelligence. He cracked Rick’s computer, listening to the intelligence they had collected.

There was nothing there to help him.

There was _nothing._

Billy sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he made a pot of coffee. He’d picked up something to eat and still nibbled on the cold chunks of meat. 

All of the intel was for the arms cache, not the new site Illyich had pointed them to. He was essentially going to be flying blind.

Like being in a dark cell with no light. No light, no sound. Just the familiar footsteps of the people walking past his cell.

He paused.

Then, he sat up straighter.

He wasn’t blind. He knew more about the Narodny Dzida than anyone. He knew about their power structure. He knew how they operated. He knew their day to day routines. He even knew the general layout of their facilities.

He knew about the cells deep underground. They had to be underground, because the air had been dank, without any outlet. He knew about the torture chambers, mostly on the same floor. He knew that the guards worked on shifts, but that there were never very many. 

In all, the Narodny Dzida was small but orderly. Routine and brute force had compensated for what they had lacked in resources and manpower.

With the uprising and trying to keep Vereychek in command, they would be spread thin. The facility had no guards on the exterior because there were no guards to spare. The security system might be functional, or it could just be set up to scare people off. The archaic torture methods weren’t just because the Commander appreciated the classics. It was probably because he lacked access to other high tech solutions.

After all, the coup had been staged with minimal men and outdated firepower. As Boregrev’s right hand, the group had been old school in its tactics. The Narodny Dzida was not a powerhouse -- at least not yet. Not until Vereychek consolidated power and the other militant factions in the country fell in line. 

He laid out the photos he’d taken this afternoon. There was nothing intricate to plan. He simply had to pick the furthest point between two cameras, cut the wire and go in. He could pick the lock and navigate his way from there.

He could still remember counting the steps. He could still remember marking time by the guard’s rounds. This was a mission that he could do -- and _only_ he could do.

Then he’d find his friends. He’d get them out. And they’d all go home together.

Standing straight, Billy looked over the piles of useless intel. 

That was that.

One way or another.

-o-

The desire to go in that night, to go right away, was almost overwhelming. The thought of his friends being left to the mercies of the Commander for any length of time made his stomach turn. Though thought of abandonment, of being _left to rot in a cell for days, days stretching into weeks, weeks becoming months becoming lifetimes, only it wasn’t living, it was just some kind of hellishly prolonged existence –  
_  
He blinked, snapping out of it. He wanted to go rescue Casey and Michael and Rick right away, but in his current state, he wouldn’t be doing them a damn bit of good. He was tired and jetlagged and his hands were shaking from a mixture of nerves and exhaustion. He’d crossed so many timezones, he hadn’t any idea how long it had been since he’d slept. And his confrontation with Illyich had been draining, to say the least.

He wanted to mount the rescue right then and there. But what he needed was to rest. One day would not be enough to break his friends – they were all probably stronger than him after all – and come morning he’d be more focused, more energetic and more capable of fulfilling his mission.

But no matter how many times he informed himself of this, he still found himself staring at the ceiling while the clock on the wall softly ticked by the minutes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick.

He rolled over. The mattress wasn’t terribly comfortable, but it had been a cheap, last-minute accommodation. And after months of sleeping on the ground, he couldn’t gripe about the mattress, really. 

Tick.

He just needed to sleep. Come morning, well, everything would happen one way or another. Either he’d be successful or he’d be dead.

Either way.

He stared up at the ceiling, kicking off one of the scratchy blankets. He couldn’t sleep. He was tired, but the dread of what nightmares might come to plague him once his eyes drifted shut made him wary. He was so close now, everything reminded him of his captivity. The country was all around him, the language, the scenery, the air... before, in the states, it had all been in his head, but now the world of his nightmares was concrete and real.

And come morning, he’d march right into it.

The ticking of the clock became, in his mind, the beating of a battle drum.

Either he’d be a spy once again, reclaiming some small semblance of the man he’d been, or he’d fail and be gunned down horribly.

Either way, it didn’t matter what happened to him.

Because it was Michael and Casey and Rick that mattered. And even if Billy had been past saving, there was still hope for the three of them.

There was still hope.

And with that thought, Billy’s eyelids drifted shut.

-o-

Billy had always been a performer.

As a child, he’d been the first to volunteer for class productions, and he was invariably cast as the lead every time. He’d tried his hand at community theater, portraying romantic heroes and swashbuckling adventurers in everything from _Romeo and Juliet_ to _The Pirates of Penzance._ At university, he’d studied theater and fallen in love with a pretty actress.

And it wasn’t just the stage. It was his entire life. Shakespeare was right about many things, the most of which was this: all the world’s a stage.

So Billy had performed for his teachers, offering such excessive excuses for his tardy homework that they never thought to question him. He performed for his friends, telling jokes to make them laugh even on the rainy days when they smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in the alleyways. He performed for his parents, for his girlfriends, for his coworkers -- everyone. Every moment of every day was a performance as long as there was an audience to impress.

For a year, he’d let that guise slip away, but he found it comfortable and easy to put back up. Dressing for the part was only half the battle. Cleaned as he was and donning neutral street clothes, he would slip about Prensk easily enough. But once inside, there would be no disguise he could adopt that would hide him from what was in there.

That was why dressing was only half the battle. The rest -- certainty, fortitude, flourish -- was what really carried any part. People believed in Billy not because he was the most polished and refined. People believed in Billy because he gave them no reason to doubt.

Not that there weren’t reasons to doubt. Sitting in Illyich’s car, parked a mile away from the location, Billy had more than enough doubts. He doubted he would be able to get past security. He doubted he would be able to find his friends in time. He doubted that he would be able to make it out of the car without having a panic attack and winding up a blubbering mess.

There was no turning back, though. After all, what did he have to go back to? His life was in shambles. Everything he’d ever loved and been was dead and gone. He had nothing. He was nothing.

So, no turning back. It was finally time to go forward.

-o-

Out of the car, Billy traveled light. He had his pistol and as many extra rounds as he could carry comfortably. The fact was, though, the gun was a last resort. If he was in a position where he had to use it, he was probably not going to get out of there alive.

And if it came to that, he wouldn’t necessarily use the gun on his captors.

But it wouldn’t come to that.

Billy moved along the quiet streets, ducking into an alleyway a few blocks up. He cut through, checking carefully behind him to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and then came out on the side of the compound.

He had scouted this location yesterday. The cameras from this angle were not as frequent, and the space between them would create a blindspot that Billy could exploit.

Probably.

Billy used to count on his luck for a lot of things, but he had to admit, he didn’t feel so lucky any more. But at this point, he really had nothing left to lose.

He stopped in the alley, pulling out the wire cutters before darting toward the fence. He gave another quick look before efficiently snipping his way through.

The metal gave with tinny pings, and without hesitating, Billy ducked down low and and slipped in. It was a tight fit, but one advantage to Billy’s too-skinny frame was that it fit through better than it probably should have.

He didn’t slow down to celebrate his victory. It was just the first step of many, and he picked up his pace, running quickly to the building and pressing himself against it.

There, he paused, letting himself breathe. His heart was pounding, and he pressed his lips together, trying to keep his focus. 

It struck him -- actually being here. In Morovia, in Prensk. Outside the compound of the people who had taken everything from him. He had wanted to die here -- had thought he would die here -- and now he was back.

Back to rescue his friends.

It was almost funny.

He had been broken here. He had been broken in every way possible. They’d beaten him and stripped him and mocked him and _destroyed_ him.

And here he was, back of his own accord.

The sudden wave of helplessness was almost overwhelming. This was a mistake. This was the biggest mistake yet. They’d broken him once; they would do it again. It was silly to even pretend like he had the ability to try such a rescue at all. He had learned that defiance got him nowhere. He had learned that cockiness and certainty and _hope_ were futile and cruel things. He’d _learned.  
_  
Closing his eyes, Billy swallowed hard against the burning of tears.

But he’d survived. His team had come. He was still living.

It wasn’t much of a life, but it was something. He had three friends who had fought for him and now they needed him. That bond -- that commitment -- was stronger than them.

He couldn’t beat them on his own. But for his friends...

For his friends, he had to try.

Opening his eyes, his resolve settled. Jaw tight and stomach cold, Billy moved to the door and went in.

-o-

Confidence and determination aside, Billy was nervous. He was a lone man in a compound with an unknown number of assailants who were likely armed and quite trigger happy. He led with his gun, but the odds were still not in his favor.

There were two types of fear, though. One was paralyzing. It crippled the soul and impeded one’s ability to function as a normal human being. Billy knew such fear. Had lived it.

Then, there was healthy fear. The adrenaline that pumped through the veins and kept one alert. The fear that motivated normal men to extraordinary feats. The kind that let broken men do the impossible.

This, he decided, was the latter.

Moving through the hallways, Billy was fast and quiet. He used his ears more than anything, listening for the distant sound of voices, pausing to assess before winding his way inward. Without a map, he was walking somewhat blind, but the ease of it came back to him. Prisoners would never be kept near the exterior. Billy had to go in --

Then he saw the stairs.

And Billy had to go down.

Carefully, Billy took the stairs, padding as quietly as possible as he went down. At the stairwell, he paused, catching his breath. He had regained most of his mobility but he had not worked on his stamina, and it was starting to show.

Still, he didn’t have time to waste.

He edged to the door, listening for a moment. 

There was silence.

Cautiously, Billy cracked the door, getting a better look. The hallways were more familiar here, the lighting dim and the odor musty. There was no sign of movement.

With that, Billy pushed the door open further, dodging inside. He swept the corridor, eyes vigilant as he moved instinctively inward. 

In his mind, though, he was counting paces.   
_  
A left, twenty paces, then a right, then fifty paces, then another left.  
_  
He could _remember._

 _A left, twenty paces, then a right, then fifty paces, then another left.  
_  
This was the place.

This was the _same place.  
_  
They’d tried to kill him here. They’d broken him here. Right _here--_

The thought was enough to steal his breath and he found himself lightheaded. He could still remember the red light on the camera, the guards holding him upright. The sound of the gun and the promise of release--

That never came.

It didn’t happen.

He was alive. And he had to use that. He had to use that now more than ever.

Freshly focused, Billy started moving again, turning abruptly at a hallway--

And running straight into a guard.

The man looked surprised, hands up as he started to apologize--

Then his eyes darkened as he realized Billy didn’t belong there. His hand went for his gun--

And Billy felt like panicking. This was it. After everything, this was it. His own stupid nightmares had robbed him of this chance. His own fears and inhibitions -- it was his fault. Michael and Rick and Casey would die because of his failure and he would be taken and broken all over again.

It was _his fault._

But something in Billy rebelled. 

It might be his fault, but this wasn’t over yet. He didn’t have to stand here and take it. He didn’t have to let this man capture him. He didn’t have to do anything at all. If he had learned anything from his incarceration, it was that man was mortal. Flesh and bone gave easily, even if the soul took longer.

Fortunately, Billy didn’t have to break this man’s soul. He just had to render him unconscious.

As the man reached for his gun, Billy lashed out with his foot. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, but a foot to the diaphragm would always carry a punch. The man keeled with a muted _oof,_ and Billy followed up with a hard knee to the man’s forehead.

Before, that would have been enough. But Billy’s game was off, and the man merely stumbled, groaning as he hit his knees.

Grimacing, Billy tightened his fingers into a fist and swung as hard as he could. The blow connected solidly, and Billy’s knuckles protested under the strain. But the man crumpled, hitting the ground without a cry, sprawled limp and unconscious on the ground in front of Billy.

Billy gritted his teeth, shaking out his hand. Casey would chide him for his poor form. Even Rick could throw a punch better than that.

Crude as it was, it was still effective. Billy had learned the hard way that, in life, there were very few points for style.

The important thing was to get the job done. Any way he could.

Which meant it was time to stow his captive and keep moving before he ran into even more complications.

-o-

Farther down, farther in.

Billy moved cautiously, skirting the range of the cameras mounted on the walls, ducking into doorways and waiting until he had a window in which to dart forward, unseen. When he heard footsteps, he tried the handle of a nearby door, ducking into a closet until the footsteps faded away into silence. In the dark, in that tiny place, listening to the guard’s steps, counting their paces, it was hard to believe it had been a year since he’d been here.

It felt like no time at all.

But this time, Billy could open the door and leave, could walk out, rather than remain confined in the dark. Stepping back into the hall, he fought to urge to flee: to run for the exit, to escape.

Instead, he kept going.

Farther down.

Farther in.

Then there was a familiar door, and his breath caught painfully in his chest he he reached forward and took a hold of the handle. It was unlocked – from this side, at any rate. The metal groaned and creaked as he hauled the steel door open, a wave of dank and fetid air flowing out as he did so. Inside were rows of closely-placed, locked doors. Cell doors.

For a second, Billy couldn’t breathe at all.  
 _  
Because on the other side of one of those doors was a room so tiny he couldn’t even stretch out all the way. Not that he would dare to stretch so languidly; he was curled up tightly, knees pulled protectively to his chest in a futile attempt to shield himself from further pain – in a futile attempt to shrink away into nothing. Because he’d been nothing, alone in that tiny cell, left to starve and die in filth and darkness...  
_  
But that wasn’t where he was now, a small voice in his mind reminded him. He was on the outside now.

It was Michael and Casey and Rick on the inside, though, and they needed his help.

All he had to do now was pick the lock.

Smuggling lock picks through customs had been unexpectedly easy. He’d learned the trick of using his belt-buckle for storage from Michael, and now it was the work of a few minutes to pull the wires and delicate metal picks out from the simple silver buckle’s hidden compartment. 

Several of the doors were ajar, the cells clearly unused. He went to the first one near the door that appeared firmly closed, then dropped to a knee, lockpicks in hand. He’d done this a hundred times before – he’d learned to pick locks as a boy, jimmying open school lockers with a paperclip and a girl’s bobby-pin for amusement – but he found his hands beginning to tremble nonetheless. He remembered his birthday, when he’d fled the restaurant and run back to his flat. He’d tried to pick the lock to his own motel room then and had failed miserably, his broken hands useless and destroyed, just like the rest of him.

Broken and useless.

The pick slipped from his aching fingers and Billy gritted his teeth to keep from crying in sheer frustration. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he took a hissing breath, then began to grope along the rough, concrete floor for the lost bit of metal.

He’d been broken and useless and running away like a coward from the hideousness of his own betrayal. But that didn’t matter now. Because then, he’d been trying to be on the other side of the door from his team. He’d been trying to push them away.

Now, all he wanted was to get them back. 

And there was no way he was going to have come this far only to be thwarted by a _stupid bloody door._

Picking up the pick, he took a deep breath, slid it into the lock, and applied leverage and pressure until something went click and gave.

And Billy pulled the door open...

-o-

It hadn’t even been a week.

Michael kept reminding himself of that.

Days passed, and they were harsh, brutal, pain-filled days, but it was still simply a matter of days. Billy had endured months of this.

Somehow, the thought failed to be comforting.

Because when the guards showed up and hauled Martinez out, knocking Casey senseless with a truncheon when he tried to intervene and slamming the door in Michael’s face, Michael was helpless. And when they brought Rick back hours later, bruised and bloodied and barely-conscious, Michael had trembled with rage, but there was nothing he could do. 

And soon enough, it had been his turn.

After the first two days, he was no longer sure which was worse; being in the cell or out of it. When the guards arrived to pull one of them out for questioning, it meant pain. But the hours spent languishing in the cramped confines of the stinking, claustrophobia-inducing cell were equally agonizing; they were hours spent worrying about whichever member of his team was being subjected to Rezin’s interrogation and false smile; they were hours spent with little to do but reflect on the cold and the pain and the hunger that began to plague them all; they were hours spent thinking about Billy.

They’d left him to this. And Michael couldn’t help but wonder if this was the universe exacting some manner of punishment on him for that. They hadn’t really known. Hadn’t really understood, until they’d seen the photos and documents of Billy’s captivity and torture. 

He understood now. He understood that it would only get worse.

He also understood why Billy had flinched for months from the sound of opening doors. At the faint sound of footsteps in the hall, he tensed, muscles coiling as he gripped the bit of stone he’d managed to chip out of the wall, gripping it like a weapon.

He understood what was going to happen.

If he let it.

Because he’d seen what Billy had become. Had seen the result of Rezin’s cruelty. The mission itself had been nearly too high-risk to even have been approved; there was no possibility that the agency would sanction a rescue mission. Michael and his team would be left here to rot. And that was simply unacceptable. 

As someone scrabbled at the lock, Michael gripped the concrete fragment even harder. Looking over at Casey in the gloom, he nodded: the other operative dipped his head in acknowledgement, raising his fists with a determined grimace. 

There was a click and thud as the tumblers fell into place. The door swung open and Michael prepared to lash out in one desperate bid to go down fighting–

– and stopped dead.

He blinked, wondering if the exhaustion from trying to sleep sitting up and the hunger from subsisting on nothing but gruel for days had combined to make him hallucinate. 

In front of him was Billy, standing and staring at them with a look of surprise on his face.

Michael dropped the piece of concrete. Behind him, he heard Casey suck in a breath.

“Billy?”

Billy hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “You lot look like hell,” he remarked.

Behind him, Michael heard Martinez rouse. He turned to see Rick gaping at Billy as he pulled himself up, staggering only slightly. “You came,” the younger operative said hoarsely, stunned.

For a second, that familiar look of pain and sorrow and anger flashed across Billy’s face. But then it was replaced by simple resolve. “Of course I did.”

“Well, when we’re all done being surprised about this turn of events, I think it’d be best if we took advantage of the open door and got the hell out of dodge,” Casey interjected, having apparently recovered himself from the shock of Billy’s arrival. “Assuming this is a rescue and not just a happy little reunion?”

Billy nodded. “Casey’s right. We need to go.”

Michael didn’t need to be told twice.


	12. XI: Redemption

XI.  
Redemption  


_  
In the end, everybody breaks._

_It took Billy over two months, but when all was said and done he was as fragile and mortal and weak as any man. He had lost everything; his dignity, his sense of self, his will to live. He wasn’t a man anymore. Sometimes he doubted he was even human. He was simply a sack of bones and skin and blood and frayed nerve endings, all coated in filth and blood and piss._

_All he wanted was for it to just bloody well stop. All of it._

_And when they whipped him and held red hot steel up against his back until he could hear the skin sizzle and smell his own flesh begin to cook, he no longer screamed defiance. He only screamed._

_And begged._

_And talked._

_It hurt to speak -- his jaw ached and throbbed still -- but the words came forth nonetheless. He told them he was CIA. He told them he was MI6. He told them he was Mossad, FSB, ASIS, anything and everything. They burned him again and between throat-rending cries of agony he told them about his first kidnapping, and how he still had the scars. He told them about his first love, red-haired Becky Campbell who he’d kissed on the top of Calton Hill when they were both young and stupid and thought they’d be in love forever. And when one of the guards poured cheap vodka over the raw, red and open blisters, he told them everything he did know and many things he didn’t. Truth and untruth blended until he couldn’t even tell which was which, didn’t even know what he was saying._

_He talked. No, not talking... screaming and whimpering and sobbing... they pulled the words from him like they’d pulled his teeth, his nails, extracting secrets that were a part of him, leaving gaping bloody holes in their wake. He told them about Michael and Casey and Rick and Higgins and Blanke and Illyich and the assets and every friend and every lover he’d ever had, every back he’d ever stabbed, confessing his soul, even as he tarnished it and damned himself to hell..._

_He only hoped it was enough to make them stop. To make it all stop._

_Because if he told them everything they needed to know, he’d no longer be of any use._

_And then, maybe, they’d finally let him die._

__  
-o-

Billy had always been one to talk about hero’s work, to wax poetic about the nature of his job. But even before, he’d been quite keen on getting the job done without any peril involved. He preferred missions to err on the side of safety, and if there was a route that involved less violence, that was normally the one he opted to take, all things being equal.

Still, he had never run from a fight, but he really felt like running now. His friends were safe -- somewhat worse for wear -- but still alive and intact, and that had been Billy’s only purpose in coming here. And now, as far as he was concerned, they could get the hell out and never come back.

Hell, they could firebomb the place and watch it burn, because Billy felt nauseous just being there, thinking about what had happened there. About what had been done to him. About the things he’d said...

So as he led his friends back toward the exit, he wouldn’t deny that he moved with more haste than usual. If it was a bit chicken of him, Billy honestly didn’t care. He was too concerned about being captured and tortured to care about whatever might be left of his dignity.

This was why Billy was halfway up the stairs when he realized his mates weren’t still behind him.

Stopping, Billy realized that his heart was pounding, palms sweating as he jogged back down to where Michael was standing with the others.

“Some sort of hold up I should know about?” Billy asked, voice low as he approached. He jerked his head up toward the stairs. “Because the exit is up that way.”

Michael’s expression was tight and he looked at Billy, almost apologetic. “We can’t go.”

Billy stared at him, half wondering if he’d misheard. “You mean, you’re opting to stay in and be captured so they can torture you until you lose all sense of self and dignity?” he asked with due incredulity.

Michael sighed. “The mission,” he said, “it’s not over.”

Billy stared at him a moment longer. Then, he had the very real urge to laugh. Because he’d risked everything to come here. He’d cleaned himself up, got sober. He’d eaten real meals and lied to people who cared about him. He’d got on a plane and shaken down an asset. He’d planned and executed a rescue mission in the place where his nightmares took place. The place they’d originated. He’d saved their lives in the place he’d mostly lost his.

And he’d been successful. He’d got in and he’d found them. He had a clear exit and now they wanted to stop.

For the _mission.  
_  
For Billy, the mission was to get in, get his friends, and get out. He’d forfeited any other mission long ago, when he’d broken in an interrogation chamber and betrayed all the confidence the CIA had ever instilled in him.

“That’s admirable,” Billy said, looking at Michael intently. “Truly. You’re a better man than I, but the mission sort of went by the wayside when you three got yourself kidnapped by the Narodny Dzida.”

Michael shook his head. Next to him, Casey was stoic and Rick was apologetic. But they agreed with Michael.

Bloody hell, they all agreed. They hadn’t been here long enough to realize that the mission would never matter as much as they thought it did. That life would go on with or without them. Good people died; bad people flourished. These things happened. It was inevitable.

But looking at them, Billy remembered a time when he didn’t believe that. He remembered a time of hope. 

He used to be like them. He used to believe in the impossible. He used to _believe.  
_  
More than anything, that was what they had taken from him. They’d taken his hope and his belief, and once it was gone, the rest of him crumbled. Without those pillars, he was just a mere man, mortal and fragile and breakable.

They’d fixed his body. They’d repaired some of the most noticeable psychological impairments, but no one had been able to find that spark of hope again. Without it, his recovery would always be incomplete.  
 _  
He’d_ be incomplete.

Standing there, Billy’s throat felt tight. His eyes burned and his heart pounded in his chest. “This may be our last chance,” he said. “If we go back--”

“I know,” Michael said, meeting Billy’s gaze steadily. “And I can’t ask any of you to stay. There’s no hard feelings for anyone who wants to go now.”

Michael looked at Casey and Rick, but really, they were all watching him. They weren’t leaving. Dumb sods, were going to stay no matter what. Billy was smarter than them; he understood.

Yet, what was survival? What did he have to go back to? What was he fighting so hard to save? Not his own life. His friends.

The mission.

He’d failed once. But here he was, living a literal second chance. He hadn’t been looking for a second chance, but now that he had it, the question was, what did he intend to do with it?

He’d broken once. Proved himself to be unworthy.

He didn’t have to break again.

Working his jaw, he sighed. “Fine,” he said.

Michael and the others watched him, a little uncertain. “We can split up even,” Michael offered. “Martinez, you can take Billy back--”

Billy shook his head. “So then I have to come back and rescue you again?” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Their surprise was evident; so was their skepticism.

Billy shrugged with as much indifference as he could muster. There was no point in being afraid. He’d seen the worst. He’d lived it. “Unless any of you have spent enough time here to feasibly know your way around without getting yourselves thrown back into that fine cell I just opened for you.”

“Billy,” Michael began in that tone of his. That mother-hen voice he’d been using ever since Billy had been rescued. He’d endured it until this point, because he hadn’t had the willpower to fight it.

Now, Billy just didn’t have the time to indulge it. He scoffed. “I’m not going to fight you on this one,” he said. “So why don’t you just tell me what we’re going back for before we get captured again and all this is an unfortunately moot point?”

-o-

As a CIA agent, Michael had learned a long time ago that he had to do things he didn’t want to do. Hell, he’d made a career of it. It had cost him friends and family, comfort and probably the better part of his sanity. It had even cost him his marriage and any chance of meaningful long term happiness he might have had otherwise.

Michael didn’t regret that most of the time. Friends and family were liabilities, and in truth, Fay was better off without him, no matter how hard it was to let her go. And he was okay with being uncomfortable and in pain. He was even okay with the idea of dying if it had to come to that.

But stopping here, in this compound and going _back--  
_  
It was something Michael _really_ didn’t want to do.

It wasn’t just the torture, which Michael had to admit, he wasn’t exactly eager to subject himself to again. It wasn’t even just the idea that Casey and Rick might be stuck there, too, although the thought of that bothered him more than a little.

But to ask Billy to go back -- after everything Billy had been through – felt _wrong.  
_  
Not just wrong, but a little like betrayal. Especially since Billy had risked so much in coming here in the first place. The last time he’d seen Billy, he’d been telling them to leave and never come back, admitting all of his darkest secrets. That Billy had been angry, hurt and broken. Michael had honestly thought there was nothing left to salvage at that point.

Yet, here he was. He’d somehow tracked them down and come to their rescue -- all on his own. Facing his physical limitations, his emotional scars and undoubtedly his fears and doubts and recriminations.

And he was _here.  
_  
And Michael was asking him to go back.

And here Billy was, _agreeing.  
_  
For a moment, Michael thought about arguing the point but he quickly realized, he didn’t have the right. Billy had made the choice to come here. Billy was making the choice to stay. Michael would respect that, because right then, he sure as hell respected Billy.

So Michael nodded. “Before we were captured, we collected scores of intelligence,” he said. “Pictures, documents--”

“Enough to bring before the UN,” Rick added.

“Maybe not enough to prompt military action, but enough to warrant some sanctions,” Casey added. “NATO might even get off their asses.”

“Basically that intelligence is our only opportunity to label the Narodny Dzida as a terrorist organization before the world is forced to recognize them as a legitimate government,” Michael said.

“We just don’t know where they’re keeping it,” Rick hedged.

Billy nodded along, listening attentively. “No doubt in the intelligence offices,” he said.

“Yeah, but without a schematic of the building...,” Michael said, mentally going over the flaws of his so-called plan.

Billy snorted. “Who needs a schematic when you’ve spent the longest few months of your life here.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “You think you can find it?”

Billy gave him a weary look. “Do you know who has it?”

“Rezin,” Michael said.

Billy stiffened at the name, visibly paling. 

“You know him?” Michael asked.

Billy’s jaw worked and his countenance visually trembled. But after a long moment, he nodded, offering them a wooden smile. “You could say that,” he said.

“We really can split up,” Rick offered again.

“Might go faster,” Casey rejoined.

But Billy shook his head. “No,” he said. “I know where to find him. If you’re going to have any chance of getting through this place alive, you’ll need me.”

Michael still hated the idea of asking Billy to do this, but the fact was, Billy was right. They did need him. Not just because he knew the layout of the building or the patterns of the guards, but because he was Billy, part of their team, one of their friends. After a year, it was like all the pieces were back in place. Nothing fit quite like it did before, but it still felt complete.

They still felt whole.

Michael just hoped they could get through this and keep it that way.

He nodded. “Okay, then,” he said, gesturing back down the hall. “After you.”

-o-

Billy stopped thinking.

His conscious brain had once been an asset, but now that he wanted to panic and run away, he figured thinking was really overrated. He didn’t need to think. He just needed to act.

And after months of inaction, he was at least pleasantly surprised to find out he could still move on the fly. More than that, he remembered.

He remembered the paces of the guards, the sound of their shoes on the cement floor. He knew to pause, pull back, press himself against the wall and holding his breath until the sound died off down the way. He didn’t know exactly where they were going, but he knew how many footfalls to listen for before they were cleared to move again.

He also remembered the smell of the hallways, mustier toward the center, where the prisoners were kept. Metallic in the torture chambers, but still cold. And up higher, the warmth starting to filter down, the sharp smell of antiseptic as they approached the offices.

Guards kept routines, and they didn’t deviate. They laughed down the corridors. They were trained, but they were so used to their prisoners being tied down that they weren’t expecting people sneaking through the halls.

This made it surprisingly easy, and Billy almost felt stupid knowing how easy escape might have been if he’d just gotten out of his cell door. There was hardly anyone there to stop him. 

In his defense, however, he’d been locked up, tied down and thoroughly beaten. If he’d seen an escape route--

It was a moot point and irrelevant to his cause. Now was the time to venture onward, use his knowledge against them, to get his team in and get them out safely. So this was all worth _something.  
_  
So the last year had _some_ meaning. He couldn’t atone for what he’d done, but he could try.

That was something.

It was the only thing.

There was nothing to say, and Billy was grateful that his team saw no reason to question him. They would have reason, of course, because Billy was leading them through a labyrinth with heavily armed soldiers. And Billy was also the man who had spent months unconscious, catatonic, and generally incapable of supporting himself.

And yet, here he was. Leading them. And they were following.

Wonders would never cease.

As they passed the last of the torture chambers, Billy pulled them up short, but as he pressed himself against the wall, he realized that this time wouldn’t be so easy. The guards were heading this way.

Glancing back, he met Michael’s eyes, nodding once. It had been a long time since they’d been in the field together, but the implicit communication was still there. Michael nodded back.

Just like that, Michael turned, making eye contact with Casey, who narrowed his gaze and darted across the hallway. Simultaneously, Rick blinked at them once before dropping back into the shadows, just out of visual range.

When Michael looked back at Billy, they were ready.

The two guards who came around the corner, however, were most decidedly not.

Billy grabbed the first one, reaching for his gun while kicking him heavily in the gut. Michael flanked him, leveling the second guard with a fast punch. The first flailed, coming up swinging and Billy had to duck to avoid a blow, losing his balance as he stumbled hard onto his backside.

It was a vulnerable moment, and Billy felt his breath catch in his throat. He half expected to see stars, to feel a brutal slap of something hard across his face, but before the man could mount an attack, Casey stepped up, moving so quickly that the man didn’t see anything before he was laid out, unconscious on the floor.

Rick had come to Michael’s aid, and with a few extra hits, their assailant was down, too. 

From his spot on the floor, Billy’s chest heaved, looking at each of his teammates in turn.

This was how it was supposed to be, he realized. How he thought it’d be. This was what he’d bragged about to Rezin. _This_ was what he had hoped on.

This was still worth hoping for.

Michael edged closer to him, as if to help him up, but Billy pushed himself to his feet, dusting his pants off. “I suggest you take their guns,” he said, nodding to their prone victims. Billy shuffled in his pocket and produced a pair of zip ties. “I hope you lads haven’t forgotten the finer art of hog tying since I’ve been gone.”

Michael grinned and Casey snorted as he reached down to take the weapons from the guards.

Rick took one of the ties from Billy, shaking his head. “We did manage to _survive_ without you,” he muttered.

Billy raised an eyebrow. “So we’re conveniently forgetting about the part where I just rescued you from a torture chamber?”

Michael took one of the guns from Casey, patting Billy on the arm. “And are you forgetting about the part where we did it first?”

Billy met his eyes and smiled. “Never,” he said. “Though I am remiss to remember that I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

Casey gave another weapon to Rick. “Help us get the intel and get out of here alive,” he said. “And that’ll be thanks enough.”

Somehow, Billy doubted that, but until he led them out of there safely, he wasn’t about to disagree.

“Very well, then,” he said, edging his way up to the corner and peeking around. Seeing that the coast was clear, he turned back. “On, lusty gentlemen.”

And then he led them forward, not pausing to look back.

-o-

After a year of seeing Billy in various stages of brokenness and grief, Michael had almost forgotten how good of an operative the Scottish man was. But following Billy through the bowels of the base, that point was made quite abundantly clear.

Because Billy moved with ease and confidence, leading them through with stealth and skill. He seemed entirely focused, his entire body attuned to the nuances of the empty halls. His lithe form tensed at the slightest noise, falling back into a defensive stance, making eye contact with Michael to communicate what he needed them to know.

Billy knew everything. The routine of the guards, the unclear path through the labyrinth. He knew to check doorways and swept hallways, without being coached or coaxed.

It was an old, familiar rhythm -- one Michael had thought he might never feel again. They weren’t just getting by -- they were performing at peak condition, all members bringing their necessary skill set to the mission at hand. Together, they were damn near invincible.

At least, Michael needed to believe that. He was, after all, leading his team _back inside_ a facility with top secret torture chambers, where they had all been beaten and bruised and one of them had been nearly irreparably damaged.

It was a lot to ask, and Michael knew it. And he wouldn’t have expected hesitation from any of them a year ago. Yet, they were all up to the task, even knowing the risks. Knowing the consequences of failure.

This was reassuring, to say the least. It was actually somewhat intoxicating. Michael had missed this more than he had been willing to admit -- he’d craved it, wanted it, mourned it, needed it.

Even so, Michael did not ignore the growing sense of trepidation about it all. Because the ease was most likely deceptive. Not only were they flirting with possible recapture, torture, and eventual death, but Michael was letting an awful lot ride on Billy’s ability to perform this task.

He could only imagine Billy’s therapist, chewing him out when she found out what he’d asked him to do. Michael knew all about PTSD; he knew better than anyone about the long term implications for recovery. Billy was mostly rid of the worst of the nightmares -- or had been, before Michael had asked him to turn back, head long into the darkest of his dreams. There could be a whole host of other regressions, and Michael knew that Billy might have another psychological break as a result.

And it wasn’t even just the psychological element. Watching the Scotsman, Michael had the unnerving sense that the man was running on pure adrenaline alone. Sure, Billy had gotten a physical all-clear months ago, when his hands had regained their full range of motion and his scars were fading and infection-free. But he’d still been seriously underweight -- even now, Billy’s clothes were too baggy, his cheeks hollow -- and the months of irregular eating and sleeping patterns were wearing visibly on his face. He was pale and sweaty, dark circles under his eyes, as he breathed harder than he used to.

Billy hadn’t even started training, yet. The idea of him being field worthy was probably still at least a year or so down the line. So the physical toll this rescue mission must have taken...

Michael didn’t know if he wanted to consider it, but knew it was too big of a risk not to. 

Still, watching Billy in action, he wasn’t about to ask the man to stop. And he certainly wasn’t going to force him to turn back. Billy needed to make choices, and after everything, Billy deserved to be treated with respect and dignity, especially in the face of these dangers.

Because this was as alive as he’d seen Billy in a year.

Now Michael just had to hope he could keep it that way...

Following closely, Michael almost tripped when Billy pulled up short. Wide-eyed, Billy looked around, scanning up and down the hallway in front of him. Behind Michael, Casey and Rick fell into formation, waiting for a signal to go on.

But Billy pulled back, and Michael instinctively pulled back a few more steps until they were nestled in a darkened doorway. 

Voice low, Billy said, “This is it.”

Michael was surprised. “You mean we’re there?”

Billy shrugged. “We have to be close,” he said. “I’m out of hallways I recognize. When you turn the corner, you can see that the janitorial staff have been called into action. Definitely beyond the point of hapless prisoners and their blood and other unfortunate bodily functions.”

“So what do we do?” Michael asked.

Billy made a face. “Not much we can do,” he said. “You want the intel, so we go ahead.”

“Isn’t it more heavily guarded?” Rick prompted.

Billy nodded. “Very,” he confirmed. “I sighted two armed guards. They actually look to be on some sort of patrol, so we will not have much by the way of subterfuge to get us ahead.”

“Two on four,” Casey said. “I like those odds.”

“Aye,” Billy agreed. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more nearby.”

“And I suppose our odds of getting past them without any sound is pretty low,” Michael said.

“Is there a back entrance?” Rick asked.

“This place is like a maze,” Billy said. “It’s probable, but we’d have to wind around -- and the only way to do that is to still go through that hallway.”

“So this is our point of no return,” Michael concluded, feeling a little grim.

“Last call for leavers,” Billy said.

Last call, indeed. 

“We’ve come this far,” Rick said.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Casey added.

Michael looked at his team. Looked at Billy. He gathered a breath and let it out. In the past year, he’d done everything he could for Billy. He’d rescued him, held him, taken care of him. He’d read books to him and talked to him and helped him do daily tasks. He’d been his friend and family, his leader and his boss.

Now, he had to let Billy lead.

Wherever that led.

Billy held his eye contact, something inscrutable in his gaze. Then he nodded once, lifted his gun, and turned, heading back toward the inevitable.

-o-

The ODS didn’t usually do guns. Often, they didn’t even carry; a spy apprehended while unarmed was far more likely to talk his way out of things than a spy apprehended packing heat. Guns made people nervous. Guns made people pay attention. Guns were loud and messy and brought the authorities running. Hand-to-hand was more their style; brutally efficient, but quiet and covert, with little mess to clean up after. Whenever possible, they simply turned their enemies’ weapons against them. Typically, Casey was the only weapon they needed. 

But the current situation meant that it wasn’t possible, and the circumstances weren’t quite typical, and right now the guns they’d stripped off the guards were their only chance to survive getting out of here, because there was too much distance and not enough cover between them and the guards to subdue them before the other men were alerted to their presence and started firing.

And Billy really doubted they’d share the ODS’ qualms about indiscriminate use of firepower. 

He only had a glimpse of the hallway, but it was enough to catch the layout. To the left was a heavy metal door to the stairs. To the right, a long stretch of hall, with another right-branching hall at the end. In between the two was some sort of alcove, and several doors. If they could make it to the alcove, it would offer some cover, but not enough to sneak past the guards, who had apparently stalled their sauntering patrol right at the turn in the hall that presumably led to the offices they needed to be in. 

There weren’t many options. The ones that they had weren’t subtle. 

The odds of them making it out of here without alerting the entire facility to their presence were rapidly dropping from slim to none.

Which meant that if they wanted to keep their odds of getting out of here at all from doing the same, they’d have to be fast and accurate.

Fast and accurate. Two shots was all it ought to take. Two shots that would be loud and would draw attention – but with any luck, by the time backup arrived, the ODS would be long gone.

Billy braced himself – hands stiff and wracked with phantom pain as they squeezed the handle of his gun with white-knuckled intensity – then turned.

He fired two shots.

One hit. 

One miss.

The first guard went down like a bag of bricks, but the second shot went wide as Billy flinched at the recoil from the first, and the remaining guard lunged for cover. Billy ducked back around the wall. “Damn.”

“‘Damn’ doesn’t sound good,” Rick murmured, then flinched as the guard fired back. Positioned where they were around the corner, there was no immediate danger of being struck, but the long empty length of hall would easily become a kill zone if they tried to press forward with their mission objective. 

Michael took a turn, leaning out around the corner and taking a few rapid but precise shots before ducking back as the guard returned fire. 

His ears ringing from the gunshots, Billy somehow still made out the sound of the guard yelling something in Russian...

Casey grimaced. “He’s calling for backup. We don’t have much time.”

One hit. One miss. Two shots. Fast... but not accurate enough. Billy gritted his teeth in frustration. “If you can get to the alcove, you’ll have a better angle for taking him out,” he said, jerking his head to the right. 

Michael peeked around the corner, retreating quickly as the guard let off a few shots, then nodded. “Okay. Rick and I will move forward. Give us cover. When we take him out, Casey and Billy will catch up and we’ll regroup to take on whatever reinforcements are arriving.”

Billy nodded, flexing his cramping fingers before adjusting his grip on his weapon. He exchanged a glance with Casey, then fell into a roll, ducking back up in a crouch in the doorway on the other side of the hall, gun raised and firing alongside Casey’s as they filled the long stretch of hall with gunfire enough to cover Michael and Rick as they made a mad dash for the alcove.

Then Rick and Michael were in the cover of the alcove and leaning out to exchange quick bursts of fire with the pinned-down guard, with Casey occasionally providing an additional shot when he thought he had a target. Billy considered making a dash to the alcove himself to provide additional fire, when the shooting stopped. 

There were a few seconds of silence, then Rick cautiously leaned out into the hall. When this didn’t earn any return fire, he grinned back at Casey and Billy. “All cle–”

There was a bang, then the sound of heavy footsteps at a run and the clatter of guns from the far end of the hall, and Michael’s hand reached out to yank Rick back out of the hall just as a troop of guards rounded the corner, weapons raised...

For a moment, Billy’s breath hitched in his throat. Guards. Men with guns and weapons and heavy fists that followed orders to dole out pain unquestioningly. And there were too many of them... Too many... they wouldn’t make it out, they weren’t going to make it out, they’d be mowed down or taken captive and this would all be for nothing and it was stupid and _shit shit shit –  
_  
For a moment, he was paralyzed with fear.  
 _  
Fear.  
_  
There had come a point when Billy had stopped feeling fear. When he had grown so apathetic to his own existence, had hadn’t given tuppence if he lived or died. When he had wished for death, only to find that had been taken away from him, along with anything else. He’d felt no fear, because he’d had nothing left to lose. 

But right now, he was scared. Terrified. Because right now Billy had something to lose, and right now, Billy cared if he lived or died.

He cared very much.

And the sheer, overwhelming instinct to survive came roaring back to life from wherever it had vanished to, guiding and steadying Billy’s hand as he raised his gun and fired shot after shot after shot.

Fast and accurate.

He didn’t let himself look as one of the guards’ head snapped back as a shot from one of their guns caught him in the head. Didn’t let himself think about Tsykalov’s brain on the wall or the cold feeling of metal against the back of his skull, accompanied by a deafening click. He didn’t think at all; he only fired. His mind was his enemy right now, and had been for some time. It had held him prisoner far longer than these walls ever had. 

Right now, Billy was riding on instinct and adrenaline, and the desire not to die; the desire not to see his friends die.

There was a slight break in the shooting; then, as Rick and Michael launched a fresh barrage of fire from their point of cover, Casey dashed across the width of the hall, dropping into a crouch in Billy’s doorway.

“Just like riding a bike,” he remarked, sliding a fresh clip into his gun and offering Billy a wry smile.

A smile. Not contempt; not a glower of resentment or disgust. Not a look of pity or revulsion, but a dry grin shared between brothers in arms. 

Billy offered a strained smile in return. “I don’t recall bike riding involving this same level of peril, though I suppose it’s possible you had a more interesting childhood than I did.”

Casey scoffed. “You know what I mean.”

And he did. Because even if he’d spent a year being a broken shell of a man instead of a spy, he’d spent far more years prior to that _being_ a spy. His body and will may have been shattered, but the experience and expertise he’d accrued in an illustrious (and occasionally infamous) career spanning two agencies meant there were certain things conditioned so deeply, it seemed he couldn’t forget them if he tried. And when push came to shove, he remembered without even thinking.

Just like riding a bike.

Which was about the time he realized Rick and Michael had stopped firing. 

“Something’s wrong.”

Casey frowned. “I can see Michael’s shoulder. They’re not down.”

Billy blinked. “Out of ammo.”

Casey paused, looking down at the extra clips he’d grabbed from the guards and stuffed into his pockets.

Billy nodded. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

Casey’s jaw worked for a second, then he bobbed his head in a stiff nod. 

Billy laid down cover fire as Casey sprinted across the hall, running half bent-over until he skidded to safety in the alcove like a baseball player stealing home plate. A few moments later, a fresh burst of fire emerged from the alcove, and Billy saw several guards drop. 

They were outnumbered, but wouldn’t be for long. The ODS might not opt to use guns often, but they were damned good with them when they needed to be. 

But right now Billy was alone and separated from his friends, and when the door on the other end of the hallway behind him clicked open as two more guards emerged from the stairwell, Billy found himself pinned down without cover. 

Cursing, he took advantage of the fact that most of the main contingent of guards’ firepower was focused on his mates to dodge from the doorway back into the perpendicular hall, the wall offering more cover than the shallow doorframe. Still, the guards from the stairwell opened fire, and as a bullet raked across his arm Billy bit back a scream before slamming his back against the wall. 

Sliding his last clip into his gun, he bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Dammit, that hurt. Pain. He’d come to expect pain, come to endure it...   
_  
You’ve had worse._ He swallowed. He’d been through enough pain that he could deal with it. It was just a graze. 

Leaning around the corner, he fired two shots, not looking to see if they’d hit. On the other end of the hall, Casey had apparently made his move, and was in the thick of the guards as Michael made a dash to back him up, Rick providing suppressing fire. More guards were down than up on that end, which was promising.

Billy’s end of the hall, however, was looking less promising. One of the guards was shouting into the hall, and a muffled, echoing return shout indicated the presence of reinforcements.

Billy wanted to call out a warning to the ODS, but there wasn’t time, and amidst the deafening gunfire he wasn’t sure he’d be heard. He was on his last clip and wouldn’t be able to provide much more fire before he ran out and was a sitting duck. Running down the hall to regroup with the ODS, he’d never make it. 

Glancing back toward his team, he noted that all three had pressed the remaining guards back to the corner of the hall, and were pushing forward around the bend. Which meant that at least when the fresh guards arrived, they wouldn’t be in the line of fire.

But soon enough, Billy would be.

He was cut off, and didn’t have sufficient ammunition to hold his position. That only left a tactical retreat. Grimacing and pressing a hand to his bleeding arm, Billy chewed down on his lip, fighting back the panic that was beginning to rise in his chest as he found himself once more alone, trapped, away from his team as Narodny Dzida forces closed in. It was a less than ideal position, granted, but it wasn’t all over yet. 

He’d head back down the hall they’d come down and try to find another way around. There was still a chance of a back route.

And right now, it was the only chance he had.

Leaning around the corner and firing two last shots to discourage immediate pursuit, Billy grit his teeth then took off down the hall.

Alone.

-o-

All things considered, this was actually going better than Michael had anticipated. Sure, they were outmanned and outgunned. Yes, they were deep within an enemy compound with an increasingly slim chance of escape. And of course, failure meant death or worse -- torture -- which certainly was an unappealing end to an altogether unappealing mission.

But the fact was that they had escaped from their cell. They still had some ammo. Casey was still up and kicking -- literally -- and they were working as a team again. All four of them.

In some ways, Michael couldn’t think to ask for more.

Except, of course, for little things like getting the intel, making an exit and generally surviving without being tortured into oblivion. Michael was normally a detail-guy but he had to admit, on this one, he was willing to overlook a few points.

None of that meant that things couldn’t go drastically wrong at any second, however, which was why Michael was still completely alert, on top of his game, and focused on getting this job done. It was a year in the making, and Michael was ready to cross this one off his list of things to do and mark it as a victory.  
 _  
Finally.  
_  
But first, he had to survive a firefight.

More than that, he needed to ensure his men survived the firefight.

Rick was hanging back, still in the alcove with a fresh stash of ammo thanks to Casey’s diligence. Casey, on the other hand, was charging ahead, and it was all Michael could do to flank him. Casey had given up most of his ammunition, relying instead on his hands, and while Casey was more than a matched for armed men with his bare hands, Michael liked to balance the odds just a bit with the firepower when he could.

Especially since the thick of guards was settling down for what appeared to be a last stand. One they were probably hoping to win, but Michael liked their odds, truth be told.

Casey didn’t stop to discuss tactics, and Michael wasn’t about to ask for details. They’d worked together long enough that it was a moot point anyway. Michael knew how to follow Casey’s lead, to move in tandem. It was a matter of trust. Casey trusted him; Michael trusted Casey. And they trusted Rick at their back, and Billy beyond them.

They were a team. Impenetrable when they were working together.

Impenetrable.

The guards were falling faster now as Casey took out one with a kick, another with a punch. Michael fired off to the side, downing another before he could get off a shot and Rick took one out from a distance before he managed to advance.

The bodies were piling up and Casey didn’t slow. Michael didn’t dare look back. They had to go, to _move._ Michael avoided a body count when he could, but sometimes he couldn’t.

Here, of all places, he _couldn’t._

When the last guard fell with a meaty thud, nose spraying blood, Casey turned the coveted corner, hand still up as he looked around wildly.

The only thing there was an empty corridor.

Michael came in behind him, breathless, gun poised to fire. After a moment, Casey relaxed, almost disappointed.

“That wasn’t nearly as challenging as I’d hoped,” Casey muttered, sounding genuinely disappointed in the effort.

Michael bent over, taking the gun off their latest attacker. 

Casey made a face, joining him in disarming a few more of the guards. 

With a newly loaded gun, Michael turned back around the corner, glancing back toward Rick. The youngest member of the ODS was still pressed in his alcove, glancing toward them nervously. He couldn’t see Billy, who had presumably stayed back to lay down cover fire for Casey.

Rick, first, though. Michael nodded toward him, not trusting himself to yell out down the hall.

Rick hesitated just for a moment. Michael positioned himself at the corner, gun raised and ready. 

Then, Rick darted out, moving in a blind run toward the relative safety of the corner. He was almost halfway there when there was the sound of renewed gunfire.

Michael cursed, narrowing his gaze as he spotted the fresh wave of guards around the corner.

This was bad -- this was very bad. Because Rick was still too far away, and if the guards were approaching, that meant--

That meant that Billy had been compromised.

He could have retreated. That would be the only safe tactical option given the sheer number of guards. Or he could have been hurt -- or worse, he could have been taken.

The thought made Michael’s stomach go cold. He’d pulled Billy out of this hellhole before. He didn’t want to do it again. He didn’t know if Billy could survive it. 

Hell, Michael doubted _he_ would survive it.

Rick yelped, going down hard, and Michael didn’t have the luxury to think anymore.

Casey moved in behind him, ducking down low. “Cover me,” he grunted.

Michael didn’t hesitate or wait to confirm the plan. Instead, he braced himself, holding his gun steady and narrowing his eyes as he fired off shots in quick succession, all aimed at center mass.

Not all of them were hits, but the onslaught still had the desired effect. The guards scattered, pausing to take cover and giving Casey enough time to dart back down the hall toward Rick.

Martinez was flailing, trying to drag himself. He’d lost his gun, using both hands instead to propel himself forward even as Michael saw the trail of blood he was leaving behind him.

Casey bent over, scooping Rick up roughly and slinging his arm over his shoulder. Rick cried out, but Casey didn’t even slow down, moving off briskly while Rick limped pathetically in step with him. 

Michael re-concentrated his efforts, keeping up a steady stream of fire while avoiding his teammates. Whether the other guards were advancing or firing at the moment, Michael knew he couldn’t give them an opening to exploit.

He didn’t stop until Casey hauled Rick back, half throwing him against the wall, where the younger agent slipped down, heaving for air.

Michael paused long enough to see Casey kneel in front of him, forcefully holding Rick down to get a better look at his wound. Michael saw the blood, noted its placement on Rick’s leg and then turned back to return the sudden uptick in gunfire.

Aiming more carefully now, Michael worked to pick off the guards as best he could. On the floor next to him, Rick hissed and Casey growled. “Looks like you wanted a matching scar to pair with the one from South America,” he muttered.

“It’s not as bad,” Rick ground out.

Michael spared them a glance. Rick’s assessment was right. There wasn’t as much blood -- the wound had hit a less vital area. 

Still, it would hurt and it would slow them down -- a lot.

But they could work with it.

Michael turned back to his firing as Casey set about ripping one of his shirts, making quick strips and wrapping them roughly around Rick’s leg. Rick stifled a cry, and Michael’s gun clicked on empty. He dropped back, pulling out one of the other guns he’d managed to snag.

“Did you see Billy?” he asked, looking at Rick.

The kid blinked at him. His eyes were a bit glassy with pain, but he was still coherent -- and worried. He shook his head. “One second he was behind us giving fire, and the next, the guards were on top of me.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. It was instinct to hide his concern, but there was no way to mask it from his teammates. Not when they shared the same fear.

Casey finished tying off the makeshift bandage, hastily wiping his bloody fingers on Rick’s pant leg. “He could have retreated,” he said.

Rick shuddered slightly. “But if he didn’t--”

Casey gave him a look. “This is Billy,” he said. “He’s not quite at 100 percent, but he’s still too good to get taken down in a firefight like this.”

The confidence was a stark turnaround, which really wasn’t so surprising. Casey was all or nothing, totally committed or completely disconnected. He’d cut Billy out of his life effectively to spare himself. But once he’d realized the extent of Billy’s torture, once he’d seen what Billy was capable of rising above, Michael knew Billy would have no stronger advocate.

And for now, Michael had to agree. Because Billy had defied the odds in more ways than Michael could count. He had to believe they’d seen the worse and that things would be better now that they were on the other side.

As gunfire dinged at the wall behind him, he winced, turning back with his gun and firing off more shots. 

At least, he had to hope things wouldn’t be quite as bad. Michael was too realistic to think it’d actually be easy. But the fact was, Billy had made it this far. He’d make it the rest of the way. And if he stumbled, Michael and the others would do everything they could.

Starting by getting the intel.

This had to be worth something, and he’d asked too much of his team to bail on that part of the mission now.

Firing off one more shot, Michael pulled back.

“We’ll double back for Billy once we get the intel,” he said definitively.

Rick shook his head. “But shouldn’t we--”

Michael shook his head. “There’s no time to debate this,” he said. “I don’t know how long this hallway will be secure. I’ll go and check the offices, find what we came for. You two will stay here, keep this hall clear at all costs. When I’m back, we’ll make a push back down and find where Billy’s holed up.”

It was clear. It was practical. 

It was also pretty damn hard. Not just logistically, but emotionally.

Michael looked at Rick, looked at Casey. “We won’t leave him behind,” he said, promising now. “Not again.”

Rick’s expression wavered, but he nodded.

Casey snorted. “Of course we won’t,” he said, getting to his feet. “Now get going. I’ll hold them off.”

Michael nodded, holding his gaze a minute longer. He looked at Martinez, before taking off down the hall, hoping with all he had that time wouldn’t make a liar of him again.

-o-

Billy retreated. 

He’d been adamantly against splitting up earlier, and now, as he ducked down the side hall, moving away from his team, further into enemy territory alone and without backup, he hated the idea even more. Only now, he hadn’t much of a choice: there were too many armed guards between him and the ODS.

He needed to find another way.

Some of the guards must have remained to re-secure the hall the ODS had turned into a warzone, while others presumably pursued the rest of his team down the length of the corridor and around the corner. A few, however, chased after Billy.

He turned and ducked as much as he could without losing his bearings; losing his pursuit was important, but losing his way wouldn’t do him much good. Counting the turns and struggling to maintain a mental map of his course, he took a right turn and flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath and waiting for the guards to run past, continuing down the hall, unaware. 

They’d be back, of course, when they realized that they’d lost Billy, either to resume the search or to regroup with the rest of their contingent. But Billy didn’t intend to stick around. He took a moment to examine the wound on his arm: it was only a graze, painful, but shallow, and not deep enough to cause damage to the muscle. A superficial injury, though it could be problematic if ignored for too long. Reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief, he tied it around his arm as tightly as he could manage with just one hand. It wasn’t much of a bandage, but it would at least soak up enough of the blood to keep it from dripping and leaving a trail by which he could be followed.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and got his bearings, imagining his relative position to the corridor where he’d been separated from his team. Presumably, they’d gone right at the end of the hall. So from his current position... Left. He needed to go left.

Needed to find another way.

Rezin was clever and sneaky, and unlike some megalomaniacs, was not so confident as to think himself invulnerable. He’d relocated his prisoners often, changing his base of operations and willingly abandoning fortified locations for security. He held on to people and information for leverage. He was the sort of bloke who always had a back-up plan. Who always had a back door.

He would be the sort of man to make sure that from any point in his base where he might find himself, there would be more than one point of egress. Which meant there would be more than one point of entrance. If the intel was stashed in an office, there would be a different way of getting to said office. Billy simply had to find it.

He took a left.

Dead end. 

He swallowed. The fear that had been coiled in his gut since the start of the mission reared its head, but he shoved it back down, reasserting control over the urge to panic. There was no more hallway. But there was a door. Billy could do doors. He reached for his lockpicks, only to find empty fabric at the bottom of his pocket. _Bollocks._ Flitting back through his memory of the last several minutes, he figured they must have fallen from his pocket when he rolled across the hallway to provide cover fire...

Out of sheer desperation, he tried the knob anyway.

To his surprise, it opened.

So, not a dead end. The door could lead to another corridor, or to a room with another door, or even to the room with the intel, if he was lucky –

– only as Billy opened the door, he realized that he wasn’t lucky.

Not even a little.

There had been half a second when the commander looked at startled to see Billy as Billy had to see him, but the other man recovered more quickly. Billy began to raise his gun, but only had it halfway up when the commander, whose pistol was already aimed straight at Billy’s chest from across the room, tsked his tongue.

“I would not be doing that, Vasili. It is poor manners, after all, to be greeting an old friend in such a way, yes?”

This time, Billy couldn’t hold back the fear.

-o-

With the sound of gunfire at his back, Michael moved quickly. He wanted this mission to be over. Better yet, he had wanted this mission done a week ago. Scratch that – a _year _ago.__

The adage was better late than never, but as Michael kicked in the first door he passed, he wasn’t sure anything was better about this at all.

The room was darkened and seemed to be some kind of conference room, of the bleak and rudimentary variety. There was a table and chairs, some kind of white board and a bulletin board on the wall with what looked like maps of Prensk and the surrounding area. It was marked with pushpins, but Michael was in too much of a hurry to try to figure out the message. 

The intel wasn’t here, which meant Michael had to keep moving.

Darting back into the hallway, Michael glanced back toward his teammates. Rick was still half sprawled against the wall, and even from a distance, Michael could see the tourniquet pinching his leg, the crimson stain beneath it. Casey was crouched at the corner, turning around it every so often to fire off shots. The pings were consistent but not fast, which Michael could only hope meant that things were holding steady, if not tipping in their favor. 

Moving across the hall, Michael found the next door. This one was unlocked. Inside, Michael found an office, which was more promising than the last. The desk was sparse, and as Michael started rifling through the drawers, his stomach turned at the picture frame on the desk of a smiling woman and two kids. Even people with aims to overthrow the government and subject people to inhuman torture apparently had families.

The drawers, however, yielded little. Michael found a stash of half-drunk brandy bottles in the desk and a pile of papers with chicken scratch Russian in the disheveled filing cabinet along the wall. They could be valuable, but it wasn’t the intel Michael had been looking for. Without Rick or Casey here to translate, Michael wasn’t going to waste his time with it.

Heading out again, Michael found the next door. This one was locked and when he kicked it, it didn’t give. Frowning, Michael looked more closely at the lock, surprised to find it to be heavy duty.

Glancing down the hall, Michael saw that this was the last door for a stretch, which meant that this room was larger than the rest. The high security lock meant that it was also more important.

Curious, Michael leaned over, gauging the lock more closely. It looked like it could be picked -- but he’d lost all of his tools for that kind of thing when he’d been captured. They’d been thorough when they’d searched him and left him without even a paperclip to his name.

Fortunately, though, he had a gun. Lock picking was less messy and a lot less noisy, but subterfuge wasn’t exactly a concern anymore, so Michael was willing to do what it took.

Standing back, Michael aimed at the hinges, moving himself out of the way to try to avoid any chance of a ricochet. Then he fired -- one, two at the top, and three, four at the bottom.

Down the hall, Rick and Casey looked at him. Michael waved them off, turning his attention back to the door. 

The hinges were damaged now and he kicked again, using as much force as he could muster. The wood gave, just a little. Michael grunted and kicked again, and he was rewarded when the entire thing creaked and tipped in.

It wasn’t easy to get inside, but Michael still found enough of an opening to snake his way through.

Inside, Michael was expecting another bland space, stripped bare and kept minimalistic. He was surprised, however, to find it quite the opposite.

The rest of the compound showed no signs of personalization or even care. Plain walls, concrete floors -- all designed for efficiency, no doubt. And while this room still had the simple concrete walls, the dark wood bookcases with ornate trim were something of an oddity. Moving closer, Michael saw that they were lined with books -- titles Michael vaguely recognized, some in Russian, some in English, some he’d seen in Billy’s motel room back in the States.

On the wall, there was a violin, mounted and polished, glinting in the garish light from the hallway. The desk itself was large and wood, aged and carefully maintained. There was a quill pen and an ink container, because whoever used this office was old fashioned, to say the least.

The surroundings were distracting, and for a second, Michael almost forgot what he was here for. Moving to the desk, he started to shuffle through the immaculate piles, neat enough and so well organized that it rivaled his own. Flipping through the papers, the handwriting suddenly caught his attention.

Small and neat. Sparse.

The same handwriting from Billy’s file.

Michael’s stomach turned. This wasn’t just the office for the head of this facility; this was the office of the man who conducted the torture sessions. Quite likely, the man who had broken Billy.

It was hard to take -- harder still not to start trashing the place in earnest. Michael wanted to put holes in the book cases, smash the violin. These people treated humans like less than dirt, and the man had created his own little refuge, where he could sit and read and jot his notes about how he beat someone within an inch of their sanity.

But that wasn’t the point, even if Michael wanted it to be. There was one kind of justice that mattered more than the rest -- justice. Justice wasn’t always enough, but there was a bigger picture here that _mattered._ Michael couldn’t undo what had been done to Billy and all the other prisoners here. But he could do something to make sure that these people fell out of power and never got it again.

Which meant, the intel. 

The desk seemed to have more recent things, but the papers didn’t look overly helpful. Michael turned his attention instead to the filing cabinets along the walls, using a paperclip from the desk to start opening them. The files were meticulously kept, dated and labeled -- but still not what he was looking for.

It was possible they’d gotten rid of it. Or it was possible that it’d been disseminated to separate location to be dealt with.

But it didn’t seem likely. These people were interested in analyzing the ODS, in knowing everything about them. So far, they hadn’t said anything, so the most information their captors could glean would be from the papers and photos they’d taken. It’d be foolish to dismantle their cache of intelligence so quickly.

Thoughtful, Michael looked around, still hearing the sounds of gunfire from down the hall. Casey would be running low on ammo. Rick would be running low on blood. And Billy...Michael just had to find Billy -- and soon.

So he had to find the intel. It wasn’t in the desk, it wasn’t in the filing cabinet.

Then he saw a chest, on the far end of the room. It looked decorative -- like an antique even -- but the hinges looked real enough.

Moving quickly, Michael went to his knees, prying open the top.

He grinned.

It was all there, still in the pack Michael had packed it in. He opened it, seeing all the files and the cameras.

“Gotcha,” he said, pulling it free.

Back on his feet, Michael inclined his head to the violin. He considered shooting it, but then decided it wasn’t worth the bullet.

In the hall, he shouldered the pack and took off at a jog. When he got back to his teammates, Casey pulled back, looking at him expectantly. “So?”

“Got it,” Michael said. “It’s all there. How are we looking here?”

Casey leaned out, firing off a few more shots. “I’m almost out,” he said. He shrugged. “But so are they. I think we’re down to three guards.”

“One of them called for reinforcements,” Rick said. “But he didn’t sound happy, so I’m guessing they’re a ways out.”

“Hopefully another compound,” Casey added.

Michael nodded. “Three’s not so bad,” he said.

Casey stood up, holding out his gun. “Three’s perfect.”

“You got it?” Michael asked.

“Lay down some cover fire,” Casey said.

“And then we can get Billy?” Rick asked.

Michael nodded resolutely. “And then we get Billy.”

Michael had Rick and Casey, he had a probable exit. He had the intel. Now he just needed the one thing he’d left all those months ago, and he could only hope that this time, he wouldn’t be too late.

-o-

Billy couldn’t move.

He was literally paralyzed by fear. Not necessarily of the man – Billy had faced men, and one tended to die as easily as another – but of everything he represented. Because the commander had been the source of all of Billy’s anguish; the mastermind of his torture, of his complete and utter destruction as a man. The man’s smiling, deceptively pleasant face was the face of everything Billy had endured. The face of every nightmare that had left him waking up screaming for the last year.

And now, once again, Billy was helpless as the commander looked at him and _smiled.  
_  
“Now, Vasili – forgive me, _William_ – do be so kind as to put the gun on the ground, yes?” the commander instructed, his pistol never wavering from where he held it, trained on Billy’s heart.

He would never get a shot off in time. Assuming he even had any ammunition left (had he fired two shots or three in the hall?), he’d be dead before he had time to even aim properly, let alone pull the trigger. Trembling, Billy slowly bent down and put the gun on the floor.

“Good. Now kick it.”

Billy kicked it, sending the weapon skittering across the floor, watching it and noting where it came to a halt.

The commander’s grin broadened wolfishly. “Excellent. This is much better way for to talk. I must be admitting, I did not expect to see you again, William. It is a... pleasant surprise. You are looking well!”

Billy said nothing. Of course, the last time the commander had seen him, Billy had been a blubbering broken mess, half-dead and begging for it all to just end... 

The commander leaned against the cabinet he had apparently been rifling through before Billy entered, looking for all the world as if this were simply a casual chat. Well, except for the gun. That diminished the friendly atmosphere quite a bit. And of course, Billy knew enough to see that his eerily companionable affect simply made his cruelty all the more brutal and shocking when it arrived, and through it all the man would simply _keep smiling...  
_  
“Do you fancy a something to drink?” he offered abruptly. “I fear all I can be offering is coffee.” He turned, though his pistol remained trained on Billy, who was too paralyzed with shock to move anyhow. There was a table in the corner of the room with another smaller cabinet and a coffee maker, whose contents appeared to be slightly less than freshly-brewed, but still warm. The commander lifted one of the ceramic mugs, holding it out. When Billy made no move to accept it, he shrugged. “No? Pity.” He was about to put the mug down, then stopped to consider it.

“Ah, is just as well. This is the mug Pavel broke last week. See the cracks?” He gestured to the mug with the but of the pistol. From across the room, it was hard to make out, but when Billy looked more closely, he could see the cracks where the mug had been glued back together after presumably being broken. “I am telling him to throw it out, but he says it is his favorite mug, and so he glues it back together. Pavel is not very bright, you see. A thing is broken, you throw it out. You can try to fix it, but even when you do, the cracks are still there. Anyone who is looking closely will know the thing is broken. That it is no good. That it is weaker for having been broken.” 

He looked up at Billy, and suddenly he felt those too-pale eyes transfixing him, staring through to his soul. The commander – No, _Rezin,_ Billy reminded himself; he had a name, and he was just a man, not some unholy avatar of suffering and evil – smiled thinly, then squeezed the mug.

The pressure caused the thing to break apart along the already-visible seams. Rezin opened his hand and let the ceramic shards clatter to the ground. “Useless,” he remarked idly, wiping his hand off on his trouser leg. “Very well, then. No coffee. Though it would have helped make this meeting more civilized, no?”

Civilized. Civilized men who sat and spoke of Shakespeare and Dostoevsky and who shattered fingers with hammers and screamed in agony until the world went dark...

The memory triggered Billy’s response, the words emerging automatically without thought: 

“I think ‘civilized’ may have just run screaming from the room.”

For a second, Rezin’s expression darkened. Then the smile returned, only this time it was devoid of any pretense at mirth. “I am always trying to give you the easy option, William. I am sorry that you insist on being... difficult.”

Difficult. Billy had been difficult for a long time. He’d held out. He’d spat back in their faces. Even after he’d lost hope of rescue, even after he’d lost his dignity and his sense of self, even after he’d lost the will to live, he’d held out, right up until they broke him completely. Broke him irreparably, and left him shattered and useless, like the fragments on the floor. The cracks were still there, weakening him, and Rezin was applying pressure now...

“No,” Billy growled, low in his throat. He’d broken once. The cracks remained, and perhaps they always would. Perhaps he was irreparable.

But he wouldn’t break again. Not today. Not with his team needing him.

Rezin sensed the shift, and the smile vanished, twisting into a sneer that was more indicative of the ugliness within. “No?”

“I’m not playing your game,” Billy replied, grimacing as his voice quavered slightly. He was still afraid. He was still terrified, the fear making his legs feel like lead and the hair on his neck prickle. But he let the fear drive him instead of imprisoning him.

Billy was afraid, because he had broken. 

But if Rezin had taught him one thing, it was that all men could be broken.

Even commanders.

Rezin snarled, the avuncular, educated mask falling away. “Uncivilized it is, then.” 

He raised the gun, but this time Billy wasn’t the one caught unaware. He grabbed a nearby chair and swung it with all his might, forcing the commander to duck to avoid it as it clattered against the cabinet, knocking over the coffee machine with a tinkle of breaking glass. 

Then Billy lunged.

-o-

It was too slow. 

Michael gritted his teeth, shifting his grip around Rick’s waist as he half-lugged the younger operative through the halls. They’d cleared the first hallway and turned down the one opposite from the office Michael had raided, but it was taking more time than Michael would have liked.

Though, to be fair, any time was more time than Michael would have liked, all things considered. 

They were going as fast as they could. Rick’s face was pinched, his breaths short and staggered as he listed heavily on Michael as they limped down the hall. The kid was in pain -- a lot of it -- but he refused to show it.

Which was just as well since Michael had no way of helping it. Much slower, and they’d never beat the reinforcements. They might not find Billy.

Michael refused to validate the thought. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

In front of them, Casey moved suddenly, and Michael stifled a curse as there was fresh movement ahead of them. He barely had time to get Rick out of the way when a bullet splintered the plaster over his head.

The sudden movement made Rick lose his balance and they both went down heavily. The impact was jarring, and Michael’s world darkened for a moment as his head bounced off the cement floor. Near him, Rick cried out. Beyond that, there was a series of yelps as thuds.

Then silence.

Blinking, Michael’s vision cleared and he looked up to see Casey wiping his hands on his pants. “Sloppy,” he muttered. “Billy was right. They’re far too used to not having their prisoners fight back. This is getting a bit uninteresting.”

Michael snorted, pushing himself up. “Be bored later,” he said. “Right now let’s focus on getting Billy.”

Casey didn’t disagree, but as Michael twisted back, he saw Martinez. His face was ashen now, tears on his cheeks, fresh blood on his leg. With wide brown eyes, he shook his head. “I can’t...”

His voice sounded young and broken. His face wasn’t just pained, it looked wrecked. This didn’t just hurt Rick physically, but emotionally as well. 

“You’re going to have to,” Casey said, ever practical as he squatted down.

Rick shook his head again. “My leg...I don’t think it’ll hold me,” he admitted. “I’m slowing you down too much. You need to get to Billy.”

There was some logic to the plea, and Michael knew it. Hell, it would be his line if it were him lying there with a bullet in his leg. But it wasn’t him. It was Rick. And at this point, it didn’t matter. Michael had left a man behind once. He wasn’t doing it again.

Decided, Michael steeled himself, reaching down and grasping the kid’s arm. “Sorry, Martinez,” he said. “We’ll carry you if we have to, but we’re not leaving you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rick protested, staggering as Michael pulled him to his feet. “Leave me a gun. I can hold my own.”

Casey moved alongside to steady Rick, and Michael pulled his arm over his shoulder. “No can do,” he said. “This time, we’re leaving together.”

Or they weren’t leaving at all.

-o-

Rezin tried to bring the gun to bear when Billy leapt at him, but he was compromised from having ducked the chair, giving the Scotsman a chance to strike his arm, pushing the gun away so it discharged harmlessly into the air as he pulled down on the trigger. The bark of the gun made Billy’s ears ring, deafening him briefly. But then he grabbed hold of Rezin’s arm and smashed it against the cabinet until the pistol fell from his grip to the ground. 

Before he had a chance to go after it, Rezin’s fist caught Billy in the gut, driving the air from his diaphragm and making him double over, winded. The punch was immediately followed by an uppercut to the chin that made Billy see stars and sent him reeling, the taste of blood in his mouth where he must have accidentally bitten his tongue. He staggered back a few paces, trying to get his bearings...

Rezin didn’t give him the opportunity. Billy had several inches of height on the commander, and he was a fair bit younger, but Rezin was fit and in good health where Billy was hardly fieldworthy. The older man was surprisingly spry and quick, and immediately seized on Billy’s disorientation to lash out with a roundhouse kick that made something in Billy’s ribs shift. 

He grunted and fell hard against the desk. Rezin moved in, aiming a blow to Billy’s head that would have caught him across the temple and likely rendered him unconscious if he hadn’t reached up to block it at the last moment. Pushing a knee up into Rezin’s hip, he knocked the other man off balance, grabbing his arm and using it to leverage himself up even as he swung Rezin down on to the desk so their places were switched. 

Rezin gasped, then sneered with a hiss. “You think you can win this fight? You have lost. You lost months ago. You are a dead man, William, you have been for a year, you are just too stupid to go crawl into your grave!” His hand groped across the surface of the desk as he spoke, scrabbling for purchase on something.

Billy found that he was breathing hard. Months spent sitting about his flat, not eating, not exercising, not doing _anything,_ had done little to prepare him for this altercation. “Shut up!” he gasped, turning in the hopes of finding the gun before Rezin could get to his feet –

– And cried out as pain lanced through his shoulder, blinding white behind his eyes. _Stupid!_ Why had he turned his back...? Looking down, he stared numbly at a letter opener protruding from his left shoulder, where Rezin had stabbed him. 

Meeting his gaze, Rezin grinned. Then twisted.

The pain brought Billy to his knees. His arm hung limp and useless, utterly numb at his side, as hot tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. For a minute, he didn’t know where he was – he was in a cell, in a chamber, the commander was there and there was pain, pain, flooding his senses, drowning out all rational thought...

Rezin yanked the blade out and blood welled up, dark and vivid and soaking Billy’s shirtsleeve. He bit his lip to keep from crying out again as Rezin kicked his injured shoulder, knocking Billy to the floor. Rezin lashed out again, catching Billy in the back, making him arch in pain.

“You were the one who wished for this to be uncivil, William. You only have yourself to blame,” Rezin drawled before catching Billy in the kidney with his boot. Billy groaned as pain lanced through his body, lighting up his nerve endings like fireworks. Rezin adjusted his grip on the letter opener and smirked as he held it aloft. “Normally I would indulge your apparent desire for a repeat visit here with us, but the fact is that I doubt your continued use. And I do not suffer useless things...”

Useless. 

Billy had been kept alive because he had use. Tsykalov hadn’t. Tsykalov had been murdered right in front of him.

And Billy got mad. He let anger rise where there had been fear, and before Rezin had a chance to drive the letter opener down, Billy rolled over and slammed into Rezin’s legs. He caught the man’s ankle with his wounded shoulder and grit his teeth against the scream that tore through his throat as Rezin tumbled to the ground on top of him, cursing. 

Then it was all flailing limbs. Fists and elbows, feet and knees, teeth and nails – they scrapped and clawed at each other, reduced to primal violence by the base instinct to survive. At first they appeared evenly matched, but Billy was tired and bleeding and couldn’t move his left arm. Slowly, Rezin got the upper hand; his normally neat silver hair was now disheveled and his pale eyes were feverishly bright as he snarled with a complete lack of articulation, grabbing Billy by the hair and slamming his head back into the floor. 

The stars cleared from his vision, and for a moment Billy saw a glint of the metal under the desk where his gun had skidded. His gun...

He tried to reach, but Rezin had pinned him down and was now raining blows Billy couldn’t defend against. He was so close, but he was at a disadvantage, and he was weak, and he was broken, and broken things would always break and never be fixed –

– Oh.

Broken things.

And as Rezin’s left fist lashed out at him, Billy grabbed it, his thumb driving into a bundle of nerves between the thumb and index finger, forcing the other man’s hand open, allowing Billy to grab the fingers and squeeze as hard as he could.

He was rewarded by a pop and a keening shriek of pain as Rezin fell back, clutching his hand to his chest, cradling fingers that, once broken, had never healed right and ended a promising career as a violinist.

The fresh burst of adrenaline now rushing through Billy’s veins allowed him to roll over and grab the handle of the gun, pulling it back and clambering to his feet as Rezin struggled to get on to his knees. But Billy had the gun now, and before his tormentor had a chance to get to his feet, Billy pressed the barrel to the back of the man’s head. 

There was a period of several seconds where both of them simply drew in ragged breaths, the room silent save for their uneven gasps.

He saw Rezin’s shoulders tense, then slump as the commander recognized defeat. And for a moment, disheveled and hunched on his knees, he looked like a tired old man. “Go ahead then,” he said, voice eerily calm. “Go ahead and do it.”

Billy felt his hand begin to tremble. He wanted to do it. God help him, he wanted to see Rezin’s brains splattered all over the wall, a painting of perfect vengeance for poor Tsykalov. He wanted revenge. He wanted to utterly destroy the man who had destroyed him, wanted to do it in a burst of sound and fury and violence. Only...

Billy’s finger tensed on the trigger. Mentally he went back over the number of bullets from his final clip he’d managed to fire in the hall, silently accounting for all of them in his memory...

“Do it!” Rezin snapped, composure vanishing. “What are you waiting for?”

Billy pulled the trigger.

The only noise was a horrible and resounding click.

And when Rezin opened his eyes, expression running from surprise, to relief, to confusion, to dread, all within a matter of seconds, Billy was standing with a weak but triumphant grin on his face.

“What?” he asked, his smile darkening. “You didn’t think I would make it that easy, did you?”


	13. XII. Recourse

XII.  
Recourse  


_  
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here._

_Only the devils were gone - for now. Or were they hiding? No, no they were gone. All gone. No one was coming back. No one was coming for him. Why would they? He was no one. He was dying. He was nothing. Ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bones left to rot in the corner of some dark dungeon, forgotten... It was dark. Had he gone blind? Had they taken his sight as well as everything else? No, no he had his eyes, but they’d taken the rest... taken everything. He had nothing left._

_Nothing left._

_Maybe he was already dead. Had he died and failed to notice? Or maybe he’d died long since; this was hell, it had to be. No way for it to get any worse..._

_It always got worse._

_Until it stopped._

_All he wanted now was for it to stop..._

_But the pain that wracked him now was old and dull. They’d taken him somewhere else, he remembered, though he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there. He’d been surrounded by ghosts, dead inside like him. They’d been abandoned. Thank God. If there was a God. No, couldn’t be a God. Just the devils. Just him, and hell. Alone in the dark, forgotten to finally die. Finally be nothing._

_He curled up on his side, squeezed his eyes closed against the darkness, and waited for his heart to stop._

_For nothing._

_Somewhere, he heard noise, heard sounds of people... no, no more people. Just the ghosts and the devils. The devils would come for him, but they wouldn’t find him. He was nothing now; he was ashes. There was nothing more they could do to him now._

_Hell was empty..._

_… Hell was here._

_“I found him.”_

_“Jesus Christ –”_

_The door opened, but Billy ignored the sounds of voices. They could only be the devils or the ghosts, and he was beyond either now. He was dying. Thank God._

_He let himself sink into the dark..._

_Into nothing.  
_  
-o-

Patience was a virtue, but Michael was not a virtuous man. He was, however, a determined man, and with one man down and another missing, Michael was more determined than ever to get out.

Up ahead, Casey led them through the vacant halls. Rick staggered at his side, and Michael gripped the younger man so tight that his knuckles hurt. Michael tried to tell himself that it was a good thing they hadn’t come across a body yet, but somehow that wasn’t very reassuring.

Then, there was a gunshot.

Casey’s entire body tensed and Rick gasped. Michael jerked his head in the direction, but it was too far away. Casey glanced back, face blank. Michael nodded. “We need to move,” he said.

With that, Casey picked up the pace, and Michael hauled Rick higher, mostly dragging the younger man, who made no further sound of protest. Because they knew what the gunshot could mean. They knew who it would lead them to. They knew it was Billy.

Whether he’d been holding the gun or not, Michael wasn’t sure. He couldn’t let himself think about it. He wouldn’t.

Casey’s sense of direction was impeccable and he took a hard turn at the next hall, his stride approaching a run. As he rounded it with Rick in tow, Michael knew why -- the sounds of a struggle were increasingly imminent. 

The hallway was long, and Casey didn’t wait for them any more. He was sprinting now, putting his full force into scaling the distance, almost skidding past the open doorway before stopping--

And staring.

It was a blank stare, not quite horror, not quite relief. Not quite anything. Casey was too stunned for any real emotion, which could mean anything.

It could mean that things were fine.

It could mean that things weren’t fine.

Michael had to know.

He bodily lifted Rick, pushing his own tired legs faster as Rick slumped against him, fingers locked hard enough around Michael’s shoulder to bruise. His arm was going numb when they came to Casey, and Michael’s aim was off and Rick listed heavily into Casey, who didn’t react.

Michael didn’t react either. Instead he followed Casey’s line of vision--

And saw Billy, beaten and battered, blood running down his arm. His face was a mess, mottled with cuts and abrasions, his posture shifted dangerously to one side.

But he was standing. More than that, he had his gun in his hand, pointed right at Rezin’s head.

His pale blue eyes lifted and met Michael’s. “About time you showed up,” he said, speaking through bloodied teeth.

And Michael laughed. “You know us,” he said. “Better late than never.”

-o-

Billy could still remember that first mission to Morovia. He could remember winning the bet that let him go see Illyich. He remembered gloating to Rick. He remembered Casey making extraction plans over the phone. He remembered Michael, quietly relishing the job well done.

He remembered: _We’ll come back for you.  
_  
And for the first time since he’d been abducted from an alleyway in Prensk, he actually believed it.

The relief was palpable, and it took all of Billy’s fortitude not to slump to the floor in exhaustion right then and there. Everything hurt -- his head, his face, his arm, his body -- and he could only imagine he was quite a sight to behold. But there was still a job to be done -- still a mission to complete -- and Billy was going to complete it even if it was the last thing he did.

Michael held his gaze, holding Rick up at his side, but it was Casey who came in, gun still up as he approached with his eyebrows up. “Son of a bitch,” he growled, looking down at Rezin.

Billy snorted, letting the gun drop. It felt heavier than it should, and Billy awkwardly managed to stow it in his holster without jarring his injured shoulder. “He’s all yours, mate,” he said, watching with some satisfaction as Casey manhandled Rezin’s hands behind him, taking a ziptie from Billy to bind his hands roughly. 

Rezin didn’t speak, jaw clenched in furious humiliation. His silver hair was askew, and when paired with his bloody face, he looked almost feral.

Billy knew the feeling, and he could taste blood from his tongue and the fresh pain of his newly split lip. The ache in his abdomen was daunting, so Billy eased his way back, careful as he moved but intent on getting a better look at the man. “I imagine he’s not used to being on this end of the manhandling, process, though. Forgive my manners: gentlemen, meet Commander Rezin.”

“We’ve met.” Michael had moved inside, gently lowering Rick into a chair and casting a hateful glance at Rezin before he took a few tentative steps toward Billy. As for Rick, the younger operative looked somewhat worse for wear, but he was still conscious and alert, watching the scene with something like wide-eyed wonder. This was of some concern to Billy, but as he was currently focused on not passing out in front of the man who had stripped him of his dignity, he could only pay so much heed -- he trusted Michael had that much well in hand.

Casey paused while patting Rezin down, removing a few blades from his body, while looking up at Billy with barely-suppressed anger. “We can kill him now,” he said with no hint of irony or joking.

Michael, who often discouraged such tendencies in Casey when he could, didn’t disagree. Neither did Rick. It seemed as if the last year had changed them all more than Billy had realized.

Rezin, still on his knees, lifted his chin defiantly.

It was enough to keep Billy grounded. Billy shook his head. “The mission was to get enough intel to convince NATO and the UN that there are atrocities being committed under the current administration,” he said. “There’s no one better to bring down Vereychek and his entire farce of a government than Rezin. He’s your meal ticket.”

“He’ll get a plea deal for it,” Michael said. “Probably a reduced sentence.”

Billy’s smiled tightly. “Probably,” he acknowledged. “But he doesn’t deserve the easy out. And trust me when I tell you that there are things on this earth far worse than death.”

Things Billy had lived. Things Billy sometimes still lived.

Casey didn’t seem to like that answer, but Casey wouldn’t understand. Casey wouldn’t understand that sometimes the greatest pain wasn’t inflicted with knives or guns or fists. That sometimes, it was the knowledge of defeat, the slow and inevitable degradation of one’s pride and value. Death was a refuge; succumbing to human frailty was the worst punishment of all. It was one that was impossible to come back from.

Almost impossible, Billy amended as he stood taller and approached Rezin. Even beaten and injured, he was still standing. If broken, still complete. _Almost.  
_  
“It’s your call,” Michael said finally.

Billy’s gaze didn’t waver, holding Rezin’s pale gaze. “We take him with us,” he said. “Let him stand trial. Let him bring his own organization down.”

Casey pushed himself back to his feet, brushing his hands off. “That’s all well and good, but we still need an exit,” he said.

Rick grunted a bit. “We don’t have long before reinforcements arrive,” he agreed.

“If they’re not there already,” Michael said. “It’ll be tight--”

“That’s not the way out,” Billy said.

There was silence. Casey looked dubious; Rick just looked worried. Only Michael dared to speak. “You have another idea?”

“Not exactly,” Billy said. Then he cocked his head at Rezin. “But you do, don’t you?”

Rezin stiffened, but kept his mouth firmly closed. 

Billy continued to approach him. “Those months you questioned me,” he said. “You had it all very thoroughly planned. You knew what pressure was needed and you applied it carefully. You always had an answer; you always had a backup plan. That’s why you’re in here, isn’t it? You’re not trying to spare your intel; you’re trying to escape. Your men are dying for you and you’re turning tail like a coward.”

Rezin’s eyes narrowed. “Foot soldiers are expendable,” he spat. “Those with power -- those with intelligence -- are not. That is why they did not come for you earlier, William. You were expendable, just like my men.”

Billy laughed, almost lightheaded. “I may be useless,” he agreed. “But I can still accomplish impossible feats. You will tell us the way out.”

Rezin’s face twisted into a sneer. “I will not.”

Billy regarded Rezin coolly. “Come now,” he cajoled. “Everyone breaks. No matter how strong. No matter how defiant. _Everyone_ breaks.”

To that, Rezin had no comeback. His face paled just slightly, even as he stayed unduly composed.

But Billy knew fear, knew how it ate at the soul. He knew desperation, the way it weakened any resolve. He knew breaking was a long, slow process. Like water on a stone.

Or the right pressure.

“Now,” he said, carefully. “Tell us the way out and I can promise you will survive. You will still be useful. Or we will stay here and discover what other uses you may have.”

There was an indecision in Rezin’s pale eyes. The blood on his face made him look old and weak; already broken.

Billy inclined his head with pity. “Really,” he said, easy and conversational now. Entirely civil, even. “I’m trying to give you the easy option here.”

-o-

Rezin talked.

Michael hadn’t actually expected him to. He’d read Rezin’s file. He knew what the man was responsible for.

This was the man who had broken Billy. _This_ was the man. Silver hair, plain face. Used to be a violinist. 

This man. On his knees, hands behind his back, hair in disarray and face bloodied. He’d orchestrated the deconstruction of one of the strongest people Michael knew. Even a year later, Billy still carried the scars, psychologically and physically.

And he _talked.  
_  
Billy didn’t have to hit him -- at least not anymore, it looked like they’d both done their share of hitting before Michael had arrived -- he didn’t even have to threaten him much. There were no mind games; no prolonged back and forth.

Rezin just crumbled. He told them how many guards there were, how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive. He told them the way out. He told them the failsafes they’d have to disengaged. 

It could have been a lie -- in fact, Michael was expecting it to be -- but as they dragged the man out, every checkpoint went exactly as he’d said, unfailingly and without a hitch.

Billy led them, Casey dragging Rezin behind. Michael brought up the rear, still mostly carrying Martinez as they wound their way through the bowels of the facility. It was hard to gauge, but it seemed like the corridors extended beyond the compound, probably taking them to an adjacent building. The halls narrowed and split off, and Rezin pointed them to the left, where they started to move back up.

It was slow going -- it was also hard. They were all sweaty and worn and mostly exhausted. Michael, Casey and Rick had been held captive for a week, which wasn’t all that long considering, but they hadn’t eaten a good meal or had anything resembling a quality rest. Rick’s injury was getting worse -- the bleeding starting to seep through the tourniquet as they moved -- and even Casey seemed to be functioning at less than 100 percent.

As bad off as they were, Billy looked worse. He’d been pale when he’d rescued them, but now his face was dangerously colorless, offset by the starkness of his own blood. None of the cuts on his face looked particularly life threatening, but there was a slightly distant look in his eyes. This wasn’t so unfamiliar, perhaps, but this time Michael was pretty sure it was the sign of a concussion.

He moved guardedly, which suggested that he was not only winded but sore as well. His arm was still bleeding, the red stain growing down his sleeve as his hand hung limp at his side. Whatever fight had gone down between him and Rezin, it had clearly been almost more than Billy could handle. If Michael were honest, he was surprised that they’d found Billy still standing.

That they’d found him alive at all.

But Billy was one to defy the odds. He’d survived three months in a cell. He’d survived the aftermath. He’d survive this.

Michael would do whatever he needed to to make sure of that.

Because this time, they didn’t rescue Billy. He rescued them. And now they were going to walk out of this place, once and for all.  
 _  
Together.  
_  
-o-

The daylight was blinding.

Leaving Morovia the first time, Billy hadn’t been conscious. He hadn’t even been aware of his rescue until months later, when he’d regained awareness in a hospital bed. He’d been dying in a cell. And then he’d inexplicably not been. 

But now Billy was walking out on his own two feet, feeling the sun on his face as he stepped out of the darkness of his own power, clambering out of the escape tunnel into a quiet side street, not far from where he’d parked Illyich’s car.

“We made it,” Rick said, looking a bit bemused. Billy didn’t blame him. Part of him was fairly surprised himself. 

They’d gotten out. All of them, this time.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” Billy mumbled, smiling, almost drunk on the surreal joy of it all.

Michael gave him a strange look. “You holding up ok, Collins?”

“Mmm.” Billy blinked. His head was swimming and he felt curiously light, almost as if he might float away.

“Where now?” Casey interjected, his ever-dour voice bringing Billy’s mind back to more practical concerns.

“There’s a car ‘round the corner. Still have the keys somewhere,” Billy said, nodding to the alley mouth. “Though I reckon I’ll concede the driver’s seat to one of you gentlemen.”

Michael sniffed. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Casey hauled Rezin forward. “What do we do with him, then?”

Michael glowered at the commander. “Throw him in the trunk. We’ll call Higgins and sort out what to do with him later once we’ve uploaded the intel to Agency servers.”

“Oooh,” Billy paused. “There might be a problem wi’ tha’ plan.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Calling Higgins?”

“No, tha’ trunk... I’ve already got Illyich in there.”

Casey turned and fixed him with a disbelieving look. “Illyich is in the trunk?”

Billy shrugged with his good shoulder, wincing. “I wasn’t sure where else to put him. I was a wee bit busy at the time.” He looked down a bit sheepishly. “Reckon we should probably let the bugger out...”

Rick blinked, looking confused as he hobbled along. “Whaa.... Illyich’s alive?”

“For now,” Casey growled, and took the opportunity to give Rezin a meaningful look. The commander didn’t look up.

“Billy, you have a phone?” Michael interrupted. Billy handed him his mobile – a burner phone with a fresh SIM card – and Michael proceeded to dial from memory as they closed in the distance to the car. 

And Michael made calls and sorted things out. An extraction was set, and they made arrangements for Rezin to be secured into custody. They got to the car and Billy slumped against it, his head spinning and feeling like it might float clean off his shoulders.

He was out.

His team was out.

And Michael was back in charge and taking care of all the details, and yes, they still needed to leave the country and they had to pass on the intel and secure all the objectives, but the important part was over now.

Mission Accomplished.

It was finally _over.  
_  
“Collins? You alright?” Casey’s brow was furrowed in worry as he shoved Rezin into the back seat of the car and shut the door, looking back at Billy, who was swaying a bit on his feet. 

“M jes’ fine,” Billy slurred, looking up at that bright, blindingly blue sky.

“You sure? Because you’re looking like you’re about to – Aw, shit!”

The sky was spinning and Billy’s vision was effusing as he felt the peculiar sense of falling. Normally he would find this alarming, but oddly enough, it just didn’t seem to matter. Everything was taken care of now. He had his team back and he’d completed his mission. It would all be all right.

And then the sound of Casey yelling faded away, and the rest was silence.

-o-

Michael had been here before.

Literally.

It was the same hospital, same doctor, same uncomfortable waiting room chairs. And Michael waited.

He waited for Billy.

It was an all too familiar feeling, and Michael had to remind himself that it was different this time.

Some points were still the same, of course. They’d had to call in to Langley for an emergency transport, and Michael wasn’t sure what strings Fay had had to pull, but when she’d heard Michael’s voice, she’d sounded suspiciously like she was crying, so Michael was pretty sure she’d pulled all the strings she had -- and hard. They were divorced by her choosing, but she could never claim to be indifferent to his well being, even if she wanted to.

Besides, Morovia was still too unstable. Four CIA operatives in the hospital would be an unacceptable liability. More than that, Rezin was too lucrative an asset to leave in country longer than necessary. So it might not have even been Fay’s doing to get the the transport so quickly. Michael wouldn’t be surprised to know that Higgins had called in a few favors in order to secure Rezin in American custody.

Four CIA operatives. Fay hadn’t been too thrilled about that. Michael should have predicted that. There was no way Langley had cleared Billy for duty, much less a solo rescue mission to the hellhole that had destroyed him in the first place.

Almost.

That had _almost_ destroyed him.

Because some things were the same, but some things were different. Billy had been unconscious when they loaded him up -- pale and bloody and still too thin -- but he hadn’t been half dead. This time, he’d be okay.

At least, that was what Michael kept telling himself as the minutes ticked by in the damn waiting room.

Billy and Rick had been taken to separate emergency rooms promptly, and Michael had forced himself to cross his t’s and dot his i’s. This wasn’t just a rescue operation, even if that was the part that mattered most to Michael. There was still Rezin; there was still Illyich. There was still a treasure trove of intel that needed to be transferred, secured and analyzed.

The chopper transport had been military, and Michael was more than happy to entrust them with the bulk of their so-called precious cargo. He was more than ready to be done with Rezin -- it spared him from the temptation of murdering the man -- and getting rid of Illyich meant that he didn’t have to babysit Casey, who wasn’t convinced that the slimy shopkeeper was even worth the space on the transport.

As for the rest of the intel, Michael didn’t need that pressing burden on him any longer. He’d risked a lot for Morovia -- more than he wanted to -- and mostly, he was ready to be done. No more missions, no more intel: the ODS had gone to Morovia and finally came out on top. No more loose ends.

They were done.

So Michael waited.

Because he had been here before, but this time it would end differently.

Better.

They’d seen Rick first. Martinez had been pretty out of it by the time they landed, but after a few pints, he’d started to come back around, with it enough to start asking about Billy. The doctors wouldn’t let him leave, though; they cited blood loss and risk of infection, so Michael and Casey had taken to waiting with the kid to help him pass the time.

When Billy’s doctor came to see them, she had the same plain face and the same even keeled demeanor.

But this time, she smiled. “I am surprised to see you all again,” she said.

Michael wasn’t one for pleasantries, especially with Rick still loopy on pain meds and Billy off in a hospital room by himself.

Casey snorted. “Trust us, it wasn’t by choice.”

Rick blinked earnestly. “How is he?”

“Surprisingly well,” she said, sounding genuinely awed. “The fresh injuries are mostly superficial. Cuts and bruising on his face and body, but nothing that won’t heal without complication. The greatest damage was to his shoulder, and we had to look carefully at nerve damage but I don’t foresee it causing him any long term problems.”

Michael stared at her, trying to understand. He could still remember her litany the first time around, the seemingly endless catalogue of injuries and impairments that had nearly cost Billy his life.

Cuts, bruises and a superficial stab wound: it was really too little to believe.

“So he’s okay?” Rick asked, as if trying to clarify.

The doctor nodded readily. “He’ll be up and released before you are, from what I understand.”

“So why did he pass out?” Casey pressed.

“Exhaustion, mostly,” she said. “Blood loss may have attributed to it some, but he mostly overexerted himself.”

Exhaustion. Again, that was also to be expected. Billy had single handedly planned and executed a rescue operation that involved extensive hand to hand combat with the person who had tortured him. Exhaustion wasn’t just expected. It was inevitable.

“It’s remarkable, really,” the doctor continued. “When you first brought him in here, I never would have predicted such a complete recovery. His body’s resilience is impressive. And his psychological condition is improved?”

Michael thought about the catatonia. The panic attacks. The tears. The depression.

The pills in the motel bathroom. The angry fits. 

Seeing him standing there, outside that door, saying _of course I did.  
_  
“You could say that,” Michael told her.

She nodded readily. “We’re currently let him sleep it off,” she continued. “I imagine he’ll be coming around within the next few hours. I’d like to keep visitors out for the time being, so he can rest. But if you all would like to wait here, I’ll send a nurse for you when he’s up.”

Michael had nothing to say to that. Because what was there to say? Rick was healing, Casey was grouchy, and Michael needed to wait.

Just like before.

Michael had been waiting for a year.

And he’d wait as long as he had to for Billy.

-o-  
 _  
There was darkness. Emptiness. Nothingness.  
_  
And then there was light.

It was bright and artificial and it burned through his eyelids, making Billy wince and squeeze his eyes shut against the assault.

Around him, he became slowly aware of noise. Whirring and beeping and the muffled sound of an intercom from somewhere, paging someone to someplace. 

His eyes fluttering open, it only took him a second to recognize his surroundings. He’d awoken in a hospital enough times in the last year that it was familiar enough; even if the room changed and the nurses were different, there were some things, like the overly-starched sheets and the IV bags and the smell of disinfectant, that were etched deep into his recollection. There was a panicked moment when he tried to remember where he was and how he’d gotten here – then he remembered.

Remembered everything.

Remembered going to Morovia. Finding his team. Confronting Rezin.

Billy’s breath hitched in his chest, prompting one of the monitors beside him to beep in protest.

“Billy?”

There was the sound of a chair scraping back against the floor as Michael stood abruptly, crossing the room in a few easy strides, Casey only a pace behind him. 

Billy remembered everything except for how to breathe, heart stuttering in his chest. His teammates were at his side, though, and Michael reached out and put a careful hand on Billy’s unbandaged arm. “Hey, it’s ok.”

Billy swallowed. “You’re here.” His team was here. Safe. Not in a cell, not some fevered hallucination...

Michael looked him in the eyes. “Of course we are.”

And then Billy smiled faintly, a small, choked laugh abruptly breaking the tension. “I reckon we really need to stop meeting like this. I’m getting all sorts of deja vu.”

Casey snorted, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Michael hesitated, then broke into a smile that actually reached his eyes. 

And for the first time in a long time, Billy felt safe.

-o-

Endings were never really climactic in the CIA. The best missions were over without fanfare; nothing but a stack of mission reports and an in depth debriefing for all the time and trouble.

For the ODS, the mission to Morovia was, strangely, just the same as the rest. From the hospital in Germany, Michael had to endure daily phone conferences with Higgins, going over every scrap of intelligence he’d transferred. The paperwork had been faxed to one of the CIA outposts in the area, and Michael had already been forced to sit down and start filling in the details as best he could.

There were a lot of details. Information about when they had arrived, about how they had been captured. Copious minutia regarding their interrogation and incarceration and eventual escape. Higgins was extremely thorough on these points, vetting the source of the compromise and wanting to know exactly how much had been exposed and what other risks might exist for assets in the area.

That was all well and good; Michael was too tired to fight it. The bigger points were more important, anyway, and the fact that those pieces were in place was his only saving grace with Higgins. 

Rezin was a boon, and they all knew it. He’d been transferred to a high security holding facility, whereabouts so top secret that Michael wasn’t even privy to it. But already, there were rumblings in the international scene, and leaked details suggested that Rezin had already provided enough intel to take Vereychek down.

It turned out that military dictators who employed extreme measures of coercion could be toppled pretty easily with the right pressure involved. As the evidence of war crimes and human rights violations mounted, Vereychek’s grip on the country loosened and his allies fled. When Vereychek finally went underground a short time later, the Narodny Dzida had lost all power and the fledgling democracy was back in place.

Rezin was to be tried for lesser crimes. He would live, but he’d never see the outside of a cell as long as he lived. It was too good for him, really, but it bothered Michael, Casey and Rick more than Billy. As far as Billy was concerned, there were apparently some things worse than death.

Of all of them, Billy would know, so Michael was inclined to trust him on that one.

He was also inclined to trust Billy when it came to Illyich. The man had betrayed them all, but he’d betrayed Billy first. Protocol was to bring Illyich in, show him for the traitor he was, but Billy had said that he wasn’t worth the effort. 

Letting him go had still been hard, but when Michael had turned him loose before leaving Prensk, the man had begged to come with them. He pleaded in the name of his pathetic life, saying there would be nothing left for him. The Narodny Dzida was going to go down, but they weren’t going to go down without some form of retribution. Michael and his team would be untouchable. Illyich, in his little, well known store, would not.

It was not necessarily a death sentence. Illyich was good -- convincing -- but Michael didn’t know if he was that good.

Ultimately, Michael didn’t have the energy to care.

Because endings never meant as much as people thought they did. Mission reports and debriefings and tying up loose ends -- closure was always more satisfying in best sellers and blockbusters. In real life, endings were just beginnings.

Higgins reaction to Billy’s role in this had been surprisingly even tempered. There had been no yelling, no threats; no belabored explanations about breaches of protocol. He simply asked about Operative Collins’ condition, and ordered Michael to bring his team home.

Michael didn’t take a lot of orders, but that was one he was all too happy to oblige.

Rick’s leg was sore, and Billy was weak, but they were both released with a clean bill of health. Michael still took his time, giving his team the time and space they needed to get their bearings. In the hotel room, Casey groused about the mattress and Rick lamented their poor internet connection. Billy was still quieter than he used to be, but he laughed at the jokes and quipped while they bantered. Not quite like old times, but maybe like new times they could finally all live with.

His team had been broken. But his team had been healed. Not perfectly, but close enough. Strong enough.

In truth, part of Michael was scared to go home. Scared to see what waited there for them, scared to see if this tentative new balance would be upset. But if endings were beginnings, then Michael didn’t have a choice about that. He really never had, and after all this time, he really just had to accept that.

But now, here they were. In an airport in Munich. Alive and together. And more than ready to go home.

The time they’d spent together had been tentative, but somehow comfortable. There were still kinks in the old routines, but things hadn’t changed to the point where they didn’t recognize the patterns anymore. Where they didn’t recognize each other.

“I still think we could have taken a layover in Paris,” Casey said petulantly, slumping lower in his seat in the terminal.

“We’ve already maxed out our sick days for a year,” Rick said. “I think Higgins was almost apoplectic when we took that extra few days for _recovery._ ”

“We were recovering,” Michael said. “In a spa. A much needed reprieve.”

“We were captured and tortured for our country,” Casey said. “Besides, the doctor signed off on it as a therapeutic measure.”

Rick shrugged. “It was nice,” he said. “Still, I’m glad to be going home.”

He was the only one who still showed any sign of injury with his leg still wrapped as he walked with a slight limp.

Michael, though he loved Paris, couldn’t disagree. He glanced from Rick to Casey and then to Billy. The Scotsman had shown no sign of lingering impairment from his run in with Rezin, and while he had started joking a bit more, he was still quiet in ways that worried Michael sometimes. 

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Rick,” Billy said, adding his voice lightly to their banter. 

Casey snorted derisively. “We should never pass up on a chance to go to Paris.”

“Normally I might agree,” Billy said. “But there’s something oddly compelling about home, don’t you think? After interrogation cells and hospital rooms, the comfortable surroundings of home might be just what we need, even more than Parisian dinners and sunset views from the Eiffel Tower.”

In the past, Casey might have pushed the point, might have mocked Billy and Rick in turn and looked to Michael to back him up, but this had changed them, more than they wanted it to. The silence that followed was tenuous and awkward; they all knew what had happened to them, what they’d lost and what they’d almost never gotten back. None of them had apologized; none of them had given thanks. They mostly trusted that they all knew it, and had counted on their unwavering presence to say what they never could.

Because this mission meant more than political capital in a changing world. It was more than the hope of democracy in a desperate nation. It was more than people doing evil things; more than spies being broken in interrogation cells.

It was about the resiliency of the human spirit; it was about the things people could lose and the things people could regain. It was about friendship and teamwork and hope.

Billy shrugged. “Besides,” he said with a small smile. “We can swing by Paris on our next trip overseas.”

It was a simple thing to say, but they understood the weight. The next time -- when a month ago, they had thought such a thing would never exist. There was no promise for the future. There was no way of knowing if Billy would ever be field worthy; if he even wanted that. But there was hope for Billy, hope for all of them.

And that mattered more than anything else.

Michael grinned, nudging Billy gently on the arm. “That sounds good to me.”

Better than any of them could have ever imagined.

It seemed like another lifetime when they’d first left Morovia, when they’d been packing up and Billy had gone off to pay the asset. The last thing Michael had said to Billy was: _we’ll come back to get you and go to the airport together.  
_  
Michael had failed that promise -- once and then twice. The first time, he’d left Billy to the worst fate imaginable. The second, he’d rescued Billy’s body but never gotten his mind.

This time, however.

This time, they sat together in an airport, ready and able and willing. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t a quick fix, but it was someplace to start.


	14. Epilogue: Restoration

Epilogue:  
Restoration  


__

_“It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”  
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo  
_

 

At home, there was still no fanfare. The ODS didn’t get parades or commendations. They didn’t get plaques or medals. But this time they got off the plane, walking together.

Even then, Michael knew it would be tempting to believe that it could be that easy. That they’d go home and everything would be the same as it would be. The fact was, however, that nothing would ever be the same again. Not for any of them.

Morovia had its first free elections. Liberals won in a landslide victory and, though violence lingered, there were positive signs for freedom and vitality. Vereychek was found by unification forces and given over to the world courts. He was eventually found guilty of crimes against humanity and sentenced to death. The people of Morovia rejoiced.

Rezin copped a plea deal, just like they had all known he would. He was the star witness against Vereychek, and in return he was given a life sentence in a comfortable jail, complete with his books and his violin. Michael imagined him playing in there, composing melodies that he could never quite perfect with his ruined hand. It wasn’t the best punishment there was, but for Michael, it was something.

He didn’t know what happened to Illyich. When he went by the man’s shop a few months afterward on a return visit to the stricken country, it was boarded up and closed, the interior dark and stripped bare. When Michael asked around, no one could remember him. Or no one would say. For someone like Illyich, Michael thought anonymity might be worse than death.

Michael had accepted years ago that justice was rarely just. Good people suffered for no reason. Bad people never got all they deserved. In all, hope was a tall order in their line of work.

Then again, the ODS had always set about doing the impossible.

-o-

The day to day routine returned more or less to how it had been before Michael and Casey and Rick had gone to Morovia. There were meetings and paperwork and occasional briefings. Life at the CIA was... well, normal. Or as normal as Clandestine Operations ever was. 

But not everything returned to normal. The whole team had undergone something harrowing, and it left its mark on each and every one of them. They’d been changed, in small but definite ways.

Rick became more vigilant in the aftermath. He didn’t take things for granted. He checked and double checked. In short, he was well on his way to becoming a paranoid bastard in his own right. Michael wasn’t sure if he was proud or pitied the man.

Casey never wavered again. He had once accepted Billy as dead, and now he accepted Billy as alive and an immutable force in his life. It was as close to 100 percent as Michael had ever seen him, and he knew it was good as he’d ever see the human weapon -- unless Billy ever joined them in the field again.

As for Billy, that was still the hardest part. He was better in so many ways -- awake, alert and joking -- but he was still a little more withdrawn than he used to be. He spent a little too much time in his motel room and he drank a bit more than he used to. Sometimes Michael still caught him looking off into nothing, a vacant look on his face, before he got himself back together and focused on the present.

Which was all any of them could do.

-o-

One day, a month or so after their return, Michael met up with Billy for dinner after leaving the office, going to pick him up from his motel. Billy hadn’t answered his phone when Michael called, so he walked up the stairs to Billy’s room. Out in the hall, he paused at the familiar sound of someone idly strumming a guitar. He let himself in, noting that Billy didn’t even look up from where he sat, cross-legged on the couch, slowly working his way through the chords of a song Michael was pretty sure was Bruce Springsteen. 

Michael looked around. The room had returned to its former squalid state, books and half-eaten plates of room-service scattered on every available surface. It was a mess. It was lived-in. Lived in by Billy.

The thought made Michael smile.

Billy hit a dissonant chord and cursed, prompting Michael to snort. Billy immediately tensed, whirling around – then relaxed, slowly, and smiled. “Didn’t see you there, mate.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt the serenade,” Michael replied with a grin. “You ready to go?”

And Billy was.

-o-

There were still the little things. 

One day, when they were on their way to the diner Adele had recommended for lunch, they had trouble finding parking in the city and decided to drop Michael’s Taurus off in a garage and walk the rest of the way. The sidewalk in downtown Washington was busy and a few times Michael saw Billy’s eyes widen in panic. At one point a car backfired and for a second, Billy froze and looked ready to bolt. But then, in increments, the muscles in his shoulder loosened and he turned to Michael with a shaky grin.

He still flinched and cringed.

But he also smiled.

And as Michael held the door to the restaurant open in a show of mock chivalry for Billy, who jokingly affected a curtsy, he chalked that one up in the ‘win’ column.

-o-

After two and a half months, Billy surprised them all when he walked into the office wearing a three-piece suit.

Casey’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Rick’s mouth dropped open. Michael raised both eyebrows. “You finally done with your year of slacking off, Collins?”

Billy smirked. “Turns out, HR gets a bit cross when all your days are used as vacation days.”

“So you’re back?” Rick queried, the excitement and hope in his voice making him sound like an eager puppy once again.

Billy’s smile remained, though it shrank somewhat. “Sort of. I’ll be leading the leisurely life of a desk-jockey for the forseeable future. I’m being retained for some low-level analyst work while the powers-that-be mull over whether or not I ought to be allowed to retake my field test.”

Casey leaned forward. “You’re retaking it, then?” Michael raised a brow at the rather uncharacteristic interest; Casey noticed, and immediately leaned back in his chair, putting back up his mask of indifference. 

Billy shrugged. “Mayhaps. Agent Blanke has offered to help me get back into shape by coaching me through his hallway aerobics routine.” This was greeted with a chorus of snorts and chuckles. “It’s a long shot, the psychiatric department says. But I’m not about to count it out just yet.”

“They have to pass you!” Rick exclaimed. “We _need_ you!”

Billy paused, something odd in his expression.

Michael offered a gentle smile. “I think what Rick means to say is, we won’t be filling that fourth desk any time soon. If you want back in the field, we’ll be behind you all the way. But it’s up to you.”

And Billy nodded. “Good to know, mates. Good to know.”

-o-

Most days, Michael didn’t even have to think about how things had changed. Most days, things were just fine. That wouldn’t have seemed like high praise once, but now, Michael found that it was often all he needed.

Until Rick showed him the paperwork.

Michael glanced at it, a little disdainful. “You’ve been on this job long enough, Martinez,” he said. “You don’t need me checking your paperwork.”

Rick didn’t move. “It’s not my paperwork.”

“Then I’m really not sure--”

“It’s Billy’s,” Rick continued, unflinchingly. 

Michael looked up at him in earnest this time. Rick’s brown eyes were wide; concerned. This time, Michael took the papers.

“He’s filing a motion to fight his deportation notice,” Rick explained, his voice hinging and his body tense.

Michael read now, eyes skimming the paperwork curiously. Rick was right, though. Billy had filled out the paperwork with uncharacteristic attention to detail, all that remained was his signature and the date at the bottom.

It was something of a surprise, and Michael didn’t surprise easily. He saw most things coming -- he made sure of that. But in all the time Billy had been a part of the ODS, he’d never once considering filling out this paperwork. He’d never even talked about going back to the UK as an option at all. He waxed poetic about his homeland, sure. Sometimes, he even admitted to things he missed. Michael had never doubted that Billy regretted his deportation.

“So what does it mean?” Rick prompted. “Does he want to go back? Is he unhappy here?”

Michael wished he knew. He had to shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“You mean it’s never come up before?” Rick pushed. “He’s never talked about going home?”

Michael’s eyes lingered on the application, the personal account, the letters of recommendation. He shook his head. “He talks about going home all the time, you know that,” he said.

“But why not file earlier?”

Michael’s gut twisted. “He never really said,” he admitted. Then he shrugged. “But I always sort of assumed he thought he deserved to be punished for whatever happened.”

There was a noise behind them, and Rick startled. Michael looked up to see Billy standing there.

“I’m impressed with your sleuthing skills,” Billy said, nodding to Rick. “The Rick I used to know wouldn’t have dared go through another man’s desk. You’re learning.”

Rick’s embarrassment at being caught hardened quickly. “You want to go home?”

Billy sighed, moving around toward his desk and settling in his chair. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’re not happy here?” Rick said. “I thought you wanted to take your field test? I’m sure we could get you some more interesting work--”

Billy chuckled. “Wanting to go home doesn’t mean that I want to give all this glory up,” he said. He shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of closed doors in the last year or so. I’d like to see which ones can finally open.”

Rick seemed to accept that, a little reluctant, but it was hard for any of them to begrudge Billy something like that. 

Still, Michael glanced at the paperwork, then looked at Billy. “What’s changed?” he asked. “All these years, and you’re just filing now.”

Billy’s mouth quirked into a small, wry smile. “Well,” he said. “I reckon I’ve been punished enough for one lifetime.”

-o-

Six months after they’d gotten off the plane in BWI, Michael found himself back in Europe in Billy’s company.

They’d rented a car outside the Charles deGaulle airport, and Billy had conceded to let Michael drive for a change. They turned through the twisting little Parisian streets, pausing often to let pedestrians by as Michael cursed at the traffic.

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” Billy remarked as they crossed a bridge into the Latin quarter.

“What, and let you go in without backup? Not a chance,” Michael replied, taking a left. Ahead they could see the dome of the Sorbonne just over the tops of the buildings. 

Billy snorted. “I don’t need backup for this, Michael.”

“If you say so. But hey, you know me – any excuse to go to Paris.”

“Heh. So long as Luc doesn’t find out we’re here.”

“Yes, well, he does have a knack for making our working vacations awkward, doesn’t he?” Michael glanced down at the map that was unfolded over the dash. “I think it’s just up here to the right...”

Billy’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and Michael saw his grip on the door handle tighten as the car pulled up against the curb. “You gonna be ok?”

Billy hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.”

It was an unexpectedly honest answer. Michael looked at him, then nodded. “Fair enough. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Billy looked down, then back up, and this time his jaw settled determinedly. “No. No, I really do.”

Michael shrugged. “Ok. Well, I’m your backup. If you need me to go with you...”

“No. I reckon this is one of those things a man’s got to do on his own, aye?” He smiled tentatively, then opened the door and got out of the car, winking at Michael through the window. “If things get too awful, I’ll run out screaming and we can gun it all the way back to the airport, yeah?”

Michael snorted. “Sounds like a plan.”

He watched as Billy squared his shoulders, then walked up the steps to the front door of a simple old apartment building and rang the buzzer. Several moments passed before the door opened, revealing a slim young woman with flyaway golden-brown hair and features that, if somewhat severe, weren’t entirely unpretty, though there was a sadness about her that made her look older than the 25 years listed in her file. 

With the window rolled down, Michael listened. 

Billy swallowed. “Mademoiselle Sofia?”

The young woman looked at him warily, an expression of paranoia on her face that Michael instantly recognized, having seen it in the mirror for years. “Oui?”

“Sofia Tsykalova?”

Her eyes darkened. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?

Billy looked nervous. More nervous than Michael had ever seen him while talking to the fairer sex. “I... I’m a friend of your father.”

Sofia’s expression went flat. “My father is dead,” she answered in accented English.

Billy dropped his head, and Michael barely heard the next bit: “I know... I was there.”

He couldn’t see Billy’s face from his angle, but he had a clear view of Sofia Tsykalova. He saw the surprise; the confusion; the mistrust; and the faint, soft, sad desperation that gave way to indecision and finally, resignation. “Perhaps... perhaps you should be coming inside.” 

The door swung open and Billy cast a look back at Michael before ducking inside with Sofia.

Michael leaned back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. Billy hadn’t told him why this trip was so important, or much of who Sofia Tsykalova was or what she meant. But he’d seen the look in Billy’s eyes when he said that he needed to go to Paris, and that was enough to stop even Michael from asking questions.

There were some things a man had to do on his own.

-o-

Billy was the one taking the test, but Michael was pretty sure that he wasn’t as nervous as the rest of the ODS. They hadn’t planned it, but when they all ended up outside the room where Billy was taking his field test, it seemed like the only natural thing.

“It’s taking too long,” Casey complained.

“It takes a long time, though, right?” Rick asked. “I remember it taking a long time.”

“That’s because you overthink,” Casey replied harshly. “Things take you twice as long as the rest of us.”

Rick didn’t rise to the bait. He just shook his head. “Billy’s been preparing for this for a long time,” he said. “He’s going to want to be thorough.”

Rick was right: Billy had been preparing for this. Casey was also right: it was taking too long.

Not for Billy, probably. But for them. Sometimes it seemed like all they’d been doing was waiting. Waiting for a lead, waiting for improvement, waiting for closure. It had taken longer than Michael could have imagined.

But he’d made it this far.

He leaned back and tried to relax. “He’ll be done when he’s ready,” Michael said.

Because this was Billy’s choice. They hadn’t pushed him into this; he’d chosen it. That counted. That counted for a lot.

“What if he doesn’t pass?” Rick asked, fidgeting.

“What if he does?” Casey returned.

Michael laughed. “One of you will be right,” he said. “But that will be Billy’s choice, too. He may not want to come back.”

“You think he’ll want to do paperwork for the rest of his career?” Rick asked.

“Well, I did have an interesting talk with your girlfriend,” Michael said. “She apparently thinks Billy might make good management material.”

Rick blinked. 

Casey snorted. “Billy with power,” he said. “And I thought I’d already faced my worst fears as a result of this mission.”

“He has potential,” Michael said. “Fay thinks it’d be a good fit, too.”

Rick was a bit awestruck. “I never even thought...”

“None of us would,” Casey said.

“But isn’t that the point?” Michael pointed out. “I mean, who would have thought we’d be here at all?”

Just then, the door opened. Rick was on his feet immediately, Casey not far behind. Michael stood next to them, and they all watched as Billy came out.

He hesitated in the doorway, face slightly pale. Then, he smiled. “Look at you all,” he said. “Just like a trio of nervous fathers in a proverbial waiting room.”

“Did it go okay?” Rick asked.

Billy waved his hand. “I’ve faced far worse.”

“So you think you passed?” Rick pushed, and even Casey seemed to lean in expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“I think I gave it all I had to offer,” Billy answered. “And I have to believe that’s good enough, no matter what the outcome will be.”

Michael moved forward, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “Of course it is,” he said. “You know, I think this calls for a celebration. Drinks? I’m buying.”

Billy’s breath caught, eyes wide. “Michael Dorset? Buying?” he asked. “This is a good omen indeed! Because apparently miracles are still possible.”

As if they had any doubts by this point.

-o-

Days became weeks became months. Time passed. Time had meaning. Sometimes it seemed to race and sometimes it slowed to a crawl, but all around him, Billy could note the passage of time and its effect on the world. Its effect on him.

The saying went that time healed all wounds. There was a point when Billy would have scoffed at that, but now he was beginning to concede that there might be something to the cliché. It had taken him a long time; well over a year. But he was putting the pieces of himself back together, and even if there were still cracks and scars, it didn’t mean that he had to live the rest of his life a broken man.

There were still times when he felt his heart pound at tiny noises – when his pulse raced at the sound of a creaking door, or when he cringed at being touched. But those occasions were fewer and farther between, and he regained control more quickly than he once had. He still had nightmares, and woke in a cold sweat at least once a week. But he woke from the nightmares; he didn’t live in them. And by the time he’d showered and shaved and gotten dressed, ready to meet Michael down in the lot, he’d generally forgotten whatever it was that had haunted him in the night as he instead prepared for a new day. 

He was out in the courtyard feeding the pigeons bread from a sandwich he’d stolen from the breakroom when Michael found him.

“Thought you were having a coffee break?” Michael raised an eyebrow, hands in his pockets as he looked down at Billy, who sat on the edge of the fountain.

Billy shrugged. “Drank coffee. Then felt like feeding the pigeons.”

“You’ve been out here for half an hour. Has the novelty of being back at work worn off so soon?”

Billy smirked. “You’ve been working on the same paperwork as I have for the last two hours. What do you think?”

Michael paused, then grinned. “I think hunting you down was a pretty good excuse to pass the report off to Martinez,” he replied, taking a seat on the fountain with Billy.

Billy tossed a crust to the pigeons, who flapped and chased after it with the singular stupid focus that only pigeons could manage. “You’re welcome.”

“So have you heard back about your field test?” Michael asked, his voice casual but the question loaded.

Billy shrugged. “Not yet. You know how much bureaucracy is involved in that sort of thing. And before you ask the next question I know you’re simply dying to voice, Michael, no, I haven’t heard back from my old employers either, and given the amount of red tape involved there, I’m not holding my breath either.”

Michael pulled a piece of bread off Billy’s stolen sandwich and tossed it to the birds. “But it could happen?”

Billy shrugged. “Might. Might not. Either way. I have options.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He absentmindedly took a bite of the sandwich, chewing it thoughtfully. “Rumor mill has it Higgins is looking at retiring, and our beguiling Ms. Ferrer indicated to me that as she is likely to succeed him, there will be an opening in the office of the deputy director that might not be outside the realm of possibility.” He shrugged again. “It’d be a pretty tall order to fill her shoes, especially given the height of her heels–” he paused for a grin, “but it’s not something I’m counting as being out of the cards just yet.”

Michael took a deep breath. “You’re right. You do have options. Any idea what you’ll do with them?”

It was a simple enough question. But one that didn’t really have a simple answer. Billy chewed his lip for a moment before replying. “If I pass my test, I might go back into the field with you lads. Haven’t decided honestly. And in the unlikely event I get my citizenship restored, well... not even sure what I’d do then to be honest. Deputy Director Collins has a ring to it, but to tell the truth, I just don’t know.”

Michael gave him a gentle smile. “Well, when you figure it out, you let us know.”

Billy smiled back. “Aye, I’ll do that.”

Michael hesitated, then: “It’s good to have you back.”

He stood and walked back toward the office doors, leaving Billy to sit by the fountain and contemplate the birds.

He had options. He had time. After so long spent curled up behind locked doors, he now found himself surrounded by open ones, unsure of which to take. He’d been utterly honest with Michael when he’d confessed to not knowing what he wanted to do with his life now. 

Except live it.

Because he was alive and he had his life back, and perhaps it was a bit of a mess here and there, but it was his to live as a free man. As a whole person. Billy had been wretched, had been broken, had nearly died and even wished for death. But he’d lived. And he would keep doing so.

The past was full of pain.

The present was full of indecision.

But the future, however uncertain, was full of possibility.

And as Billy took one last bite of the sandwich before tossing the remainder to the birds, he stood, smiled, and followed Michael back toward the Agency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so ends "Rack and Ruin" - it's been a great ride, folks! Thank you to all our readers, and to everyone who stuck out this incredibly long and emotionally-tumultuous fic with us! It was an adventure to write, and we're so happy some of you enjoyed it and that we could share it with you. Thank you once again to sockie1000 for beta-ing, and to everyone who kindly reviewed! Our appreciation knows no bounds. Until next time,
> 
> \- Faye and Lena


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